Fighting Fate
by eos9
Summary: Fanon-not-canon; AU OotP; AU slash-ish chapters for "Fate's Favourite" by The Fictionist- see my fav stories list; HP/TR; no lemons, limes or smut; some bad language; Are platonic soul mates possible? I hope not!
1. After Ch5

******Author's Intro:** This is an AU slashy series of vignettes designed to insert between chapters and scenes in _Fate's Favourite, _a very swiftly-updating WIP by The Fictionist. The idea is that these chapters will read as cut scenes and theoretically (if I can get it right) will not disrupt or contradict the originating story up until the very end. As such, I'm not sure if these scenes would be able to stand alone out of context, so if you're interested in reading _Fighting Fate_, I strongly recommend that you read it together with its inspiration.

_Fate's Favourite_ is a non-slash, post-time-travel, AU OotP novel-length fic focusing on a 'friendship of sorts' between Harry and Tom Riddle, Jr., who are both now repeating their 5th year. If you've never understood why people like to read slash, _Fate's Favourite_ is the perfect story to find out, as it has all of the intimacy and intensity that makes slash (particularly gryff/slyth slash) so compelling, without any actual sexual interaction or romance between the main characters. If you do enjoy slash, it's a worthy read as it has all of the best aspects of the genre, albeit within a platonic context.

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**AN:** Immediately following the end of Chapter 5

Scenario: Harry's trying to fit into his old persona after a year of being a leader in Tom's core group of Slytherins. Ginny's having a breakdown from having to confront a nearly-diary-aged Tom in the flesh and is taking it out on Harry. Tom tires of Harry's reticence and performs legilimency on him. Extract below in **bold,** followed by my accompanying drabble.

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**'Are you really going to stand for her disrespect, her lies?' he asked. He was genuinely curious, but he didn't mind the potential knock-on effects either.**

**'What do you want, Tom?' Harry asked. He kept his features passive with expertise, choosing only to quirk his lips slightly.**

**'I want many things - some of which you are aware of.'**

**'Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you.'**

**'Teach me better then,' he retorted, knowing Harry would never take him up on the offer. He was too wary, too experienced to fall for such an enticing trap. No, with Harry, it was a different game entirely. It was a subtler, the moves required much more finesse, and much more ruthlessness. A paradox - but everything about them was a paradox, wasn't it? Still, he couldn't help but feel a slight disappointment when Harry shot him a look, before picking up his bags and walking away. The biggest thing about Harry? Neither of them ever had to pretend.**

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"Ah yes... running away is certainly one way to distance yourself from the 'Gryffindor jock'. But then again, one of the things I always appreciated about 'Slytherin Harry' was that even if you did know to back down, you couldn't be bothered to. Perhaps you've decided to abandon both houses and explore your inner Hufflepuff?"

Harry stopped just before the door and turned to glare at Tom. "I'm not your toy, and you're hardly an innocent child to be playing with them still."

Tom casually sidled up to where Harry was standing, waiting, torso twisted, bag beginning to droop once again towards the floor. "Adults have their toys too, you know, and some of them have quite... fascinating uses."

Tom watched a streak of tantalising red splash against Harry's cheek just before the other boy turned back towards the door. Intriguingly, Harry didn't continue onwards, but remained in place as Tom's arms crept to his shoulders.

Leaning into whisper in Harry's ear, his lips just brushing the outer shell, Tom switched to Parseltongue. _"If you're not interested in teaching me, then perhaps,"_ he paused, and ever so gently allowed his incisor to graze the tender flesh, _"then perhaps I should be the one to teach you."_ Wetting his lips, he allowed the tip of his tongue to just barely touch the now scarlet ear, and then Tom dropped his hands and stepped back to observe the boy.

He was beautiful in his delicacy, devastating in his vulnerability. Harry stood there, motionless but for the tremors running through his body and the frantic pace of his breaths. It was like the crystalline moment in which peace crumbles into destruction, the air ringing with the finality of this one last pause of quiet before the symphony of chaos and change commences.

And the glorious thing was that Harry knew, or at least a part of him—the part not firmly in denial—was completely aware of the burgeoning landslide his once safe-yet-enticingly-dangerous precipice had just become. Tom watched Harry sway as if the boy could actually feel the ground beneath his feet convert to rubble destined to tumble and carry him away.

Tom knew that all it would take would be a single breath, a single touch, and Harry would succumb. And that was why Tom stood still, just far enough away. It was too soon. For now, he would content himself with gently picking at the threads that held Harry together. Eventually, he would find the master seam, and then, when he pulled, he would savour the ensuing unravelling of the Boy-Who-Could-Be-Equal.

Slowly, Harry gathered himself, injecting his frame with a core of invisible steel. Without another word or look exchanged between them, Harry repositioned his bag and walked out the door, never seeing the dancing fire in the dark eyes that followed in his wake.

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**AN:** I named this AU-AU_ "Fighting Fate", _because in the_ Fate's Favourite _world—and the whole HP canon universe really—Voldemort is the avatar, the mechanising manifestation of Fate in Harry's life. If you go through the _FF_ story, and replace the word "fate" with "Tom" or even "Voldemort" each time it's mentioned, the phrase or sentence will probably still work. It could become an entertaining drinking game if extended to other fanfiction stories. Not quite sure how it would work, but the vague idea tickles me.


	2. End of Ch9

**AN: **Inserted at a scene change found 3/4 of the way through Chapter 9, not far before the end.

Scenario: Tom and Harry were once again duelling in the RoR when Tom discovered the results of Harry's first detention with Umbridge.

Extract below in **bold,** followed by my accompanying drabble.

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**'I'm going to kill her.' It was said in such a pleasant, conversational tone, that for a moment Harry was convinced that he'd misheard. Then he remembered exactly who he was talking to.**

**'I can fight my own battles,' he said stiffly. Tom raised a brow.**

**'I don't doubt it, however, I don't think you were planning to.'**

...

**Then he pulled out his wand, fast: one minute it was in his pocket and the next in his hand.**

**'Whoa,' he reflexively jerked his wrist back. It didn't really work when Riddle was still holding on.**

**'**_**Easy,' **_**Tom hissed, stilling his hand for a moment, meeting his gaze. 'I'm just healing your hand. It's annoying me.'**

**Only Tom could get away with doing something nice on the count that it was annoying him.**

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Harry forced his body into the practiced stillness he'd learned from a year of living with Tom. Even after all this time, the feeling of Tom's magic washing over his skin could be... unsettling. Having Tom perform parselmagic took that feeling to a whole new level. No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't stop the goosebumps that erupted all over his body, standing the fine hairs at his wrist on end. The wrist that Tom was still holding...

Uncertainty swept over Harry as he braced himself to not look away from the intensity of Tom's dark blue eyes. They had joked once, that eyes must indeed be the windows to the soul as both of their "hidden houses" were revealed through their eye colour. Harry tried not to think about it too much, though. Tried not to think about Tom having eyes remarkably similar to a famous movie siren. It just wasn't right. He didn't want to think about Tom in that light—ever. Things were already too intense between them. It was like normal boundaries just didn't apply—couldn't apply. Even worse, there was this voice that whispered in his ear during the sleepless hours of his nights, whispering of what would happen—how he would react should he ever lose that... intimacy, that closeness that he had only ever shared with Tom.

And then he felt it. It was so subtle, that had he not been completely focused on this moment, on Tom, he might have missed it. For just a second there, he could feel Tom's thumb shift—roughened pad dragging silkily mere millimetres over a feverish pulse-point and then back again. So slight a movement that it could have been accidental in almost anyone else. But this was Tom. Every gesture was meticulously planned and executed.

Harry realised that though his body was frozen, it was stiff with tension, and perhaps that had been enough to feed the probing presence in front of him. He forced his arm to become a limp weight as he looked away. No, he didn't want to think about Tom's eyes, or the feel of his magic, or the coolness of every ridge on his thumb, or how his pulse quickened to meet it.

Tom had taken up enough room in his head already.


	3. After Ch19

**AN:** Following the end of Chapter 19

Scenario: Tom has tracked Harry down to the Quidditch stands, where he finds the boy ruminating on the replacement of Umbridge with an inner-circle death eater.

Extract below in **bold,** followed by my accompanying drabble.

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**"What are you up to?" he demanded. Riddle came to a stop, close enough to touch. His expression had cooled rapidly.**

**"Why are you asking so many questions, Harry? You know I don't like it," he questioned icily.**

**"You know I don't like not knowing. Your plans rarely benefit me. You know I'll find out anyway," he returned. Tom took a step closer, his aura beginning to flare. "If that is so, then why do you insist on continuing this conversation? It grows tedious."**

**His eyes narrowed. "Is it the same ever elusive reason you have for being in this time period, despite the lack of interest you seem to have in current affairs?" he asked.**

**Tom continued walking again, briskly now.**

**"This conversation is over."**

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"Alright, Tom! I know already, alrgiht? You can't hide it from me—I know, and it's not going to work." Harry prayed that Tom wouldn't call his bluff. Sure he had a general idea that it all came back to Tom's "empire", but it wasn't really enough to challenge the other boy. Still, it was all that Harry could think of to make him stay. If Tom wasn't going to reassure him about Carrows, the least he could do was not shut Harry out.

Faster than a striking viper, Tom had turned back and was now encroaching on the smaller boy's personal space, his eyes alight with cold fire.

"You know, do you?" He looked Harry up and down as he circled around him, a predator weighing his prey, the faintest touch of an almost-sneer fixed on his finely-sculpted face. His hand darted out and grabbed Harry by the throat, not enough to constrict, but more than enough to _re_strict and provide complete control. Slowly, Tom brought his other hand up and together his hands travelled, mapped the smooth golden column of the boy's neck, which was now corded with tension and wariness.

"And what is it that you think you know? Do you know every plan? Every motivation? Every..." his palms cupped the stubbled jaw, _"...twist?"_ He tilted Harry's head back and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the imagery of a wolf baring its neck to the alpha. Tom's hands moved inwards now, never once relenting in their commanding pressure.

For once, Harry's eyes wore only the blank neutrality that Tom had worked so hard to perfect in him. Tom leaned closer, contorting his body and Harry's to exaggerate the height difference. "Do you know when each plot will be set in motion?" His fingertips just reaching the carved line of Harry' bottom lip. His whisper flowed over Harry's reddening cheek and ear like incorporeal feathers, "Do you know when I will... _strike?"_ Harry stopped breathing and his eyes went wide as a perfect fingernail abruptly sliced his lip.

Before he could blink, Tom's invading, claiming hands were gone and the two boys were once more their normal heights in their normal places. It was as if the encounter had been nothing more than a dementor-inspired haunting, only instead of seeping cold, Harry's whole being was in flames, drowning in heat and something that could not possibly be small enough to bear a name.

Tom's smirk was knowing and sharp as tigers' teeth. "You only know what you're willing to face."

Harry stood still in the inky empty darkness of the abandoned pitch, watching Tom's swiftly retreating back, and gently sucking the blood that beaded into his mouth.

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**AN—**I know that as chapters go, these little instalments barely qualify. For the sake of ease in referencing though, I think it'll be best to keep each AU scene separate.


	4. Between DD Ch2 and 6

**AN:** _Destiny's Darling_ is a side-fic collection of _FF_ out-takes and one-shots by The Fictionist. After Ch25 of FF, the storyline continues chronologically with Chapters 1, 2, and 6 of _DD _before the storyline continues in_ FF _with Ch26. The vignette below takes place between Chapters 2 & 6 of _DD_, and was requested by WyrdSmith.

Scenario: After the post-Dursely fallout with Dumbledore & Ginny, Harry is ousted from of the tower and dragged into the Slytherin dorms by Tom & Co. In his first night there, he has a nightmare. By the time Tom gets him settled down, Harry's new bed-mate, Zevi, has sprawled over the bed, and so Tom allows Harry to share with him for that night only.

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We lay in bed saying nothing, lined up against each long edge, poised to fall at any subtle shift. We stare at each other, blinking. Somehow, I know that this is the first time he's ever shared a bed with anyone. Coming from the orphanage, I'm no stranger to shared beds, myself. Although I'd never let my followers know, even now, this is the height of luxury compared to what awaits me in my own time—rations and London's biggest ever crime wave and evenings spent glued to the wireless for news on the continent and nights spent with Billy Mitchell's feet in my face. Until I stun and drop him to the floor, of course. Stupefy and mobilicorpus were the first wandless magics I mastered. Neccessity's the only mother I've ever known.

Even in the dark and shadow-filled stillness, his eyes glow a vivid, palpable green, startling in their lush verdency. They never shine so brightly as they do in the moments before sleep. This is the only time to really see them without the glasses, except for when he loses them in a fight, which is rare and usually too quickly remedied to enjoy. I wonder now (as I always do without the context of conversation or his visibly fluctuating emotions), about what he's thinking, lying there on my bed and blinking owlishly at me. He's so different from any of the rest of them. I wonder if I'll ever tire of the puzzles he presents, if I'll ever grow weary of the tectonic fault-line and shifting plates that make up his psyche. For now though, it is enough—the puzzles and the potential and the promise.

His blinks last longer now. As his eyelashes flutter closed I know that he will soon lose the battle to stay awake. I think he doesn't trust me to wake him kindly if he has another nightmare, and he's probably right. There was a reason why I had my own room by the time my Hogwarts letter arrived. Too bad I was forced to give it up with my absences to Scotland and the floods of newcomers from the Blitz. He and I both have finely-honed reflexes based on survival and defense. I don't think I'll ever understand why he never took that simple step from defensive, to offensive. Such a practical, proactive thing, and yet I think that this, more than his guilt and my lack thereof, is the dividing line between us—that which separates and defines us as both potential allies and potential enemies.

I watch the steadying rise and fall of his ribcage, the grooves clearly visible through the tatty garment he assures me is vile due to its previous owner, not its muggle nature. I don't choose to make the distinction. It amazes me that the only person capable of challenging me is here in my bed, wilfully at my mercy and fragile as dust. Having already soothed him, he sleeps peacefully, and his untroubled innocence is nearly... painful. I doubt that I have ever looked so young in my life.

He says that I've rubbed off on him—that I bring out his Slytherin qualities. I suspect that my dirty secret—were I capable of shame—would be that he brings out whatever Gryffindor tendencies I could possibly claim... but only for him. There is something like a toothache inside of me when I look at him, and it calls me to be his protector. Perhaps it is merely self-preservation recognising Harry for what he is—nothing more and nothing less than a mirror. Regardless, I watch him—now asleep—and I feel this... compulsion to keep him here, always, in my bed.

Unfortunately, of course, it cannot be. But for tonight...

Slowly, so as not to awaken him, I levitate his body to the centre of the bed and gently pivot him to face the other way. Back to back, I let the heat of his body cocoon us both beneath the blanket. For what is left of tonight, at least, I can keep him safe.


	5. Between DD Ch6 and fanon Ch26

**AN:** After _DD_ Ch6 and before _FF_ Ch26.

Scenario: Relevant plot references are included below. Not directly tied to the preceding _DD_ or following _FF_ chapters, but it seemed like a good point for Harry to stop and take stock. In this scene, he gets introspective about his sexuality, the relationship he shares with Tom, and grappling with society's mores. Harry's internal dialogues tends to be more waffly than Tom's, so get ready to pull up your bootstraps- it's a mess in there...

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_**I. Wasn't there supposed to be more to puberty?**_

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He hated thinking about it, and for a long time now, it'd been easy to ignore. Unfortunately though, the recent accusations, and more importantly, his recent interactions meant that it was time to drag the dead horse back out of the trunk.

Something was wrong with him. He wasn't stupid. He knew what it was supposed to be like—a constant craving like always being hungry... an impossible-to-eradicate physical urge like... like needing to sneeze or feeling itchy or having to piss. But he'd never felt that way, and it should have started _year_s ago.

He'd thought at first that maybe it was delayed development from the Dursleys, from not getting enough food or... Salazar forbid... not being _hugged _enough, or something. But year after year, and he'd never woken up to sticky sheets or had to awkwardly adjust his robes and damn, wasn't it like him to be such a freak that he was embarrassed about not having the normal embarrassments? So he blamed it on his misbegotten constantly-at-risk life. Regular death threats would put a damper on anyone's sex drive, right? Right?

And then he'd met Tom, and realised that he was the same way, and Harry thought, maybe it was the power. Maybe they got power instead of sex. It wasn't like Dumbledore had any kids, after all. And somehow, that made it okay to be a bit... well, a bit more... physical than he had been before. It was easy to write off as them just being two neglected orphans who hadn't had a lot of bodily contact as children, so there wasn't the shame or uncertainty like there was when interacting with kids who grew up taking that sort of thing for granted. He and Tom never had to worry about their boundaries or what was proper or things getting misunderstood... partially because they couldn't give a toss, and mostly because no one would have dared to interfere.

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Harry sighed and settled more comfortably against the austere stone window-seat. It was dark in the Astronomy Tower, the sconces still unlit from that night's class. He had waited hours for Tom to fall asleep so that he could sneak out of their dorm without the risk of being tracked down.

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It was all happening too fast. Harry had added it up, and somehow there had only been a little over a week's worth of action-packed days since the snowballing of events that began with Umbridge's detention. His head spun with the swirling memories of Dumbledore's betrayals and facing him down not once, but four times, of being possessed by Voldemort and then threatened by him, of the verbal (and in McLaggen's case, physical) assaults from his (former?) house, of the painful stab at Dudley's rejection, and Tom, always Tom. Somehow everything always circled back to Tom.

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Why was it so much more intense now, than it had been last year?

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_**II. Commonality and Connection and a little bit of something on the side**_

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Harry remembered the first time he'd met Tom. He snorted—the first time he met Tom, the boy was actually older than Tom was now. How screwed up was that? Tom's memory had been fascinated by him, by their similarities, and Salazar, wasn't it a kick in the teeth when the real thing responded in exactly the same way? Parselmouths, orphans, halfbloods, powerful, Peverell descendents, the wand cores, Slytherins. And maybe Harry didn't have Tom's perfect looks or his height, but the diary had been right—they even looked alike—enough to be close kinsmen, if not brothers.

And then there was the connection. How fair was it that it still worked with the younger, slightly sane, fairly human version? His one comfort in the initial panic those first few days in 1942 had been that at least it could be something of a holiday away from Voldemort and everything that entailed. Well, surprise!

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What drove him really crazy though, was that the fascination went both ways, and dammit! –he actually sort of liked the git. Tom had as good as called him family in front of everyone, and didn't it feel bloody wonderful to be publically claimed by someone for once as more than just a tool? To be wanted? To belong? Didn't it balance out the Dursleys, at least a little bit? Okay, nothing could completely outweigh the total mortification of having his dirtiest secrets aired to all of Hogwarts in the most brutal way possible.

Well, not the most brutal—it could have been worse. There could have been an all-singing all-dancing pensieve presentation showcasing the highlights of 'Life-in-the-Cupboard' and 'Harry-the-Bloody-House-Elf'. Salazar, he couldn't even imagine the "coming out of the closet" jokes the Slytherins would have thrown into their chucklefest over Ginny's malfunctioning gaydar. Add in a few "do we get to punish him" comments and he probably would have simply left Hogwarts right then and there and just immediately handed himself over to Voldemort to have the whole mess done and dusted once and for all.

Harry sighed. Yeah, it could have been worse, but even still, it had been a bloody nightmare, and Tom had supported him, just like he'd helped with everything else in this Salazar-forsaken hell-pit of a week. He would never forget the shock of learning that Tom had carried him in his arms; he'd never forget the rush of power and... and _rightness_ when they'd banished Umbridge and then stood together against everyone; he'd never forget the well-earned certainty that Tom could save Sirius, or the relief when he'd been spared the bloody dark mark.

So maybe it was okay that he was just as fascinated with Tom as Tom was with him. And yeah, part of it was the connection—hell a lot of it was the bloody connection, because without it, Tom wouldn't be able to track him down half the time, and they wouldn't spend so many of those... _moments_ together. But that aside, it was mostly this thing about commonality... that and of course the thing they built up last year with their boundaries... or rather, lack thereof; the boundaries that probably reflected what they needed (or at least what Harry needed and Tom gave for unknown nefarious purposes), the boundaries that in the end were probably a whole hell of a lot more... flexible than what most normal teenage boys ever followed. And it was okay last year because, well... in the end everyone just had to accept that he and Tom were already different to them in so many ways, that what did a little extra horseplay change anything?

But somehow, it had. Somehow they, who practically knew no limits with each other outside of the power plays, somehow they had found barriers that Harry never even knew existed... until they were crossed—most of them in the last week or so. Were they new boundaries, or was it just that he and Tom had never gone there before? What made it even more muddled was that now there were all these rumours that didn't even qualify as rumours anymore because people were saying them straight to their faces.

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_**III. Context**_

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How could he be gay when he'd never really fantasized about either sex? When the closest thing to the famous butterflies he'd felt was over Cho's pretty face and shining hair? Okay, that was a fairly lame bit of desire to use as evidence, but it was the only thing he had, and didn't it count that it was over a girl, and not a boy? Besides, ignoring their little jokes- didn't he and Tom have a reputation as guys not to cross? No one seemed to question that they were both perfectly capable of giving an arse-kicking, and from the looks the girls gave, they seemed to do alright on the masculinity scale. Weren't gay guys supposed to be effeminate wimps?

And yet for some reason everyone seemed to think that this revolving thing that he and Tom did—the way they were always the centre of each other's attention, the way everything they did seemed to pivot on the other as if they were slowly ceasing to be two different people (and wasn't _that_ a thought to ensure endless sleepless nights, screaming night terrors or no)—that this... well, to be a total pillock... "bond" between them was evidence of their "shared passion"- more evidence than being caught buggering in a broom cupboard by Filch could ever be. Come on- if that's all it took to be declared "in a relationship", then all he'd have to do is pay a little attention to the Creevey & Co groupies, and suddenly he'd be declared- with proof, no doubt!- to be the sultan of a bisexual harem! Get real!

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It didn't make any sense, but it _did_ make him uncomfortable, especially knowing that even with all of them wrong, things between him and Tom were in fact different than they'd been before. The rough-housing and the post-nightmare comforting and the posturing... it was like someone somewhere had suddenly put huge invisible inverted commas around everything they did. Like every interaction had some sort of flashing "Look Here" illumination hovering above them. They'd become some sort of bloody metaphorical Blackpool spectacle almost overnight.

And he knew it was important, and he could see that everything was signposted... from Tom grabbing him by his tie when he first arrived to the hot and cold of Tom's body to the lingering sensitivity on Harry's left ear. But no matter where he looked, he couldn't find the footnotes, and there wasn't a map. Just this growing self-consciousness as he tried to shut out the awareness of that... spark... of _something_ whenever he looked at his left forearm and saw what _could_ have passed for the impressions of Tom's perfect fingernails on Harry's imperfect skin.

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_**IV. Levelling the playing field**_

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Dumbledore had once told him that it doesn't do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Somehow, it was like all of the lives he'd lived before, all of the Harrys he'd ever been in his time and in Tom's were all a dream, and that now—now, with Tom here, _intentionally_ (not just part of some random magical hiccup that served as an excuse for Harry to not emotionally invest in any of the Slytherins), he was waking up for the first time. Tom would probably say that he'd never even been alive enough to dream, that Harry had just been a raw lump of clay waiting to be moulded by Tom's long and elegant fingers.

Harry snorted. His very own Pygmalion. Too bad "My Fair Lady" was way after Tom's time and a Cockney accent would be wasted. He sighed again and briefly considered picking up smoking. If he was going to start sighing all the time like one of the groupies, at least he could put the heaving exhalations to good use. After all, that would _definitely _piss off Tom. The other boy may have missed the whole lung cancer thing, but he was certainly fastidious enough to find the habit repulsive even without the purported health risks.

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Salazar. His mind just wouldn't stop tumbling in circles. He thought back to the idea of being a lump of clay and was somewhat depressed to realise that the image didn't bother him as much as it probably should have. Maybe it was because he'd read somewhere that the artist is changed as much by his creation as the artist in turn shapes the work. Sure, the fascination between the two of them was completely mutual, but did the reciprocity end there? As long as the effect they had on each other was also mutual, Harry thought that maybe he could live with it.

And there it was—what he had skulked up here in the middle of the night for. He looked out of the window at the paling stars and for the first time in over a week, Harry suddenly felt like he could breathe again—like he was more than just one gigantic bruise. He and Tom had never bothered about other people's opinions before—had never cared about the way everyone else said things were supposed to be done. Why in Salazar's name should they start now? Okay, things were changing between them—had changed, and Harry definitely didn't get it, but maybe that was okay. As long as he could make sure things between them remained equal—as long as he continued to have as much of an effect on Tom as Tom had on him, then maybe it didn't really matter where they were going, as long as they were travelling... well, together.

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As he took one more look out of the window before gathering himself to sneak back into the dorm, Harry meditatively ran a hand over his left forearm and practiced building an immunity to the imagined dizzying sensation of flawless searching hands marking his skin, dangerously deceptive and wantonly territorial. Walking through the doorway, he told himself that the strangled breath which escaped wasn't his body betraying him with need.

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**AN—**Well, I'm not especially pleased with that. This is why I've been sticking mostly with drabbles. Never say in 500 words what you can say in 2,000, eh? I'll try to tinker with this later and see if I can prune it into something a bit less pedantic. In the meantime, I'm hoping the headings helped to break it up a bit, though I found it difficult to maintain structure while keeping the trails of Harry's thoughts appropriately circular. If you have any suggestions, please let me know!

21/10/11: fixed some copy-editing errors and added a few touches here and there. It's certainly not any shorter, but perhaps it flows a bit better?


	6. After Ch33

**AN:** Following Ch 33. Here is another somewhat dawdling chapter of mental meanderings, although thankfully only about half the onerous length of the previous one. Next chapter after this is more action-based and even has a tiny bit of dialogue. Yay!

Synopsis: Harry and Tom go to Godric's Hollow. That night, Harry suffers from a vision of a Death Eater raid. When trying to leave the Slytherin dorms, Tom withdraws his mental support and Harry collapses.

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They were in their usual place on the sofa in the common room, Harry asleep with his head on Tom's lap as the older boy casually sifted through the messy black locks, so different from his own fine straight hair. Tom was pretty certain that if Harry were to cut just two inches off the ends, he'd resemble nothing so much as a frightened hedgehog with the way it stuck straight out from the roots.

How could something so thick and coarse be so silky?

After a few rounds of sicking up, Harry was out for the count, and everyone else had long gone back to bed. Tom however, had decided that tonight he would keep vigil. Part of it of course was that he had no desire to once again wake up back-to-back with a mortified Harry Potter.

He could feel the cold curve of the rememberall pressing against his hip. Tom had wondered how the paradox would resolve itself, and now he had at least part of the answer. He pondered what further role he had to play in it beyond the device's creation, but put that question to the side for the moment. For some reason, the necessary outcomes of that route made him uncomfortable.

Tom leaned his head back against the sofa. It would be All Souls Day tomorrow. How appropriate. His hand left the boy's hair and slowly trailed down the fading damp of Harry's flushed skin and found the pulse point in his neck. Tom's fingers itched to dip below the frayed T-shirt and trace his fragile collar bone, but it was pointless while that beat remained so steady, the breathing rhythmic and uninterrupted. He might as well play with any other body in the dungeons if all he was looking for was to satisfy curiosity on the look and feel of the human machine.

In any case, he had already taken advantage of Harry's vulnerability once in the past couple of days. To do so again so soon would be vulgar, and for something like this, quite without point.

Tom looked down at the peaceful trusting weight on his lap. Their souls were bound, that much was certain. He was still looking for clarification in his Horcrux book, but for now it was enough to know that only Harry would ever be tied to him so closely as to almost fool his... tendencies, his nature into viewing Harry as a part of himself, worthy of consideration in a way that no one else could or would ever be.

And perhaps this is why it... pained him somewhat, that Harry never returned the courtesy that Tom had paid him. Tom knew that a large part of the attraction he held for Harry was that Tom saw who him for who he was, not for his titles—a precious boon almost never given to the boy wonder. But though Harry never shied from him and was able to see a depth to his character that his followers could never be able or allowed to see, Harry in the same instance refused to acknowledge even to himself Tom's darkest aspects.

It was like he told Harry not too long ago—the boy only knew what he was willing to face. And it was insulting that he continued to insist that Tom was far removed from his highest aspiration (petty child torturer aside)—that he was _tamer_ than the wizard who was so powerful that people feared to speak his name. How dare he question Tom's ability to make his mark on history!

Yet how could Harry do otherwise? The boy was an open book, and with the glaring exceptions of unfortunate omissions regarding his well-being, Harry never hesitated to bare his intentions, his reactions, his soul. And while Tom had avoided any direct lies, he freely employed misdirection and hoarded his secrets like a dragon. It was no wonder then that Harry filled in the missing pieces he perceived in Tom with projected bits of himself. Galling yes, but not (unfortunately) undeserved nor should it have been unexpected.

Ironically, that was why he had decided to alter his plans somewhat and bare a little of himself to Harry in return. Now that the boy had been told the other functions of rememberalls, it would only be a matter of time until it was revealed that Tom had plotted around Harry, and then obliviated him. It would be a test, but Tom could not deny that it was also a very rare gift- a gift freely given because at the end of the day, Harry had defended him—multiple times—and _no one_ had _ever_ defended him before. He'd had people argue on his behalf, trying to curry favour or avoid his displeasure, but he'd never had anyone rise to protect his... well, whatever it was that Harry thought he was protecting.

'_My hero,'_ he thought with a snort as he gazed down at Harry's sooty lashes, his puffy lips just barely parted, his still pained and furrowed brow. Tom reached down and gently took one of the hands that Harry had folded protectively over his chest, and he slowly, smoothly brought the hand up to his own chest and pressed it there, his long fingers firmly closing over Harry's as if aiding in sealing a wound.

And that thing he felt beating against the pressure on his sternum, it wasn't something he ate or lack of sleep and it wasn't even his shrivelled conscience. Like a serpent in the midday sun, he allowed himself to bask for a moment in the heat of Harry's hand. And then he carefully returned the hand to Harry's chest and levitated the boy back to the dorms.

Perhaps his gift to Harry would help him _see _Tom—all of him without any pretty lies or fanciful hopes- just as Tom _saw_ Harry. And if Harry could somehow find a place for himself—and his expectations—within the truth, then perhaps...

.

In a rare moment of unconscious movement, Tom's hand lifted in a gesture that almost, almost traced the path to his heart.


	7. After Ch40

**AN:** Following Ch 40. Well I'm back to doing a small bit of action following a scene. Whew! Bet you're glad! ;-) This one doesn't have a lot of tension, mostly because it follows a very tense scene in the story in which Harry responded by freaking out. Tom of course (who in my ficlet is ironically falling prey to the same weakness as Harry), would not do anything to destabilise Harry's equilibrium too much further after such an intense confrontation.

Synopsis: This time Tom retreats to the Astronomy Tower in a bid to sort out his identity crisis. Harry finds him.

Extract in **bold**.

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**"I'm…confused," the other said. Harry's brow furrowed.**

**"Over what?" he asked. Tom took a step forward, and Harry froze as a slender hand came up to caress his face.**

**"These feelings. I don't understand," Tom looked very intent now, his face uncomfortably close. Harry felt a stirring of absolute panic in his stomach.**

**"Hah, funny Tom," he said nervously. Tom took a step with him as he backed away, trying to regain some semblance of personal space.**

**"It's not funny!" the other snapped, angry now. "What the hell is this? What are you doing to me? I've never - just the thought of **_**him **_**in your head instead of me."**

**"But I thought you liked talking about feelings," Tom replied, viciously. Too close. Any closer and they'd be touching. The hand on his face dropped to his tie, twirling it idly. He was going to throw up. Tom's eyes flicked up to his face, hard. "No?" he enquired delicately. "Then back off."**

**In an instant the tie was dropped and his hands released as Tom spun away from him, back to his earlier position of watching the Thestrals - now gone. Harry's heart restarted itself. Okay, Tom had been joking, right?**

**"I'll just…go then," he said, a little freaked out.**

**"Does this mean you're my minion then?" Tom asked. He paused, frowning.**_** I scare all my minions…**_**Harry felt a distinct annoyance fill his insides. Sadistic bastard.**

**"You know, if you didn't want to talk you could have just said so," he growled.**

**Without another word, he stormed out the Astronomy tower, to the cold sound of laughter behind him.**

**"But you react so charmingly! I thought you wanted to cheer me up..."**

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Harry was halfway down the spiral staircase, lost in thought, when a tug on his robes brought him up. Looking back, he saw Tom's carefully neutral face hovering on the steps above him, all traces of his earlier mocking laughter and... whatever the hell game he had been playing, gone. With a shake of his head, Harry faced forward and continued his descent. He didn't have the energy for this shit—one good night of sleep wasn't nearly enough to deal with Tom's hot and cold drama.

"Don't be such a girl, Harry."

He turned back again, this time with a look of incredulous contempt stamped over his face.

"A girl! You're calling me a girl when you're having enough mood swings to make me wonder if I should send you to Pomfrey so she can check to see if you've accidentally swapped your bollocks for bloody ovaries?"

Tom frowned. "You think about sex too much Harry."

Harry tried to give a strangled laugh but suspected it came out more as a cross between a defeated whimper and a half-hearted snort.

The older boy made his leisurely way down another couple of steps and then crossed his arms, casually leaning into the spine of the staircase as he examined Harry with what appeared to be open curiosity.

"For someone who blathers on enough about championing the rights and free will of others, you can be awfully fixated on control."

Harry's eyes widened in outrage as he sputtered, "You! You're pretending to lecture _me_ on control issues?" His gast could not be more fully flabbered.

"Words, Harry. Words." Tom waved his hand in cool indifference. "Words, names, labels, brands... why do you think we have them?"

Harry was now officially concerned about the other boy's sanity. "Erm... to, you know, do this little thing we're doing now with the sounds and the meanings and the moving our mouths in different shapes? That thing?"

Tom dropped his arms and sighed dramatically. "If you give a thing a name, you declare its existence, which gives you at least the impression of control. Words and names and labels are used to exert a sense of control over our uncontrollable environment—to limit the unknown. To bind and define it."

He started to advance on Harry, who was too dumbfounded by the 'Tom-coaster' to move out of the way until he suddenly snapped out of it and found himself uncomfortably sharing the same step with Tom, who of course did nothing to create space between them, but instead appeared to lean in.

"Sometimes, Harry... sometimes, the unknown can set you free."

Attempting to create as small a target as possible, Harry tried to shrink back a bit as Tom raised his hand towards Harry's face for the second time in what could only be about 20 minutes or so. When he felt Tom's hand land on his head, he tried to suppress the flinch, but couldn't quite avoid a startled jump when the touch became... a condescending pat? Before he could say anything though, Tom had already moved on and was descending the spiralled steps at a rate of knots, his voice floating back up to Harry.

"Remember, some things don't fit into any mould..."

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**AN:** Well, I'm not very far into this project, and I'm already finding it much more difficult than I anticipated. The idea was to insert small extensions to the endings of scenes (hopefully all at the ends of chapters) that could help flesh out a progression of a slashy relationship between Tom and Harry without disrupting, interfering, or contradicting the FF fanon. There's only about 25 chapters left for me to scour through to look for those kinds of subtle openings, so there may not be many more updates to this project left unless I veer completely away and just completely re-write certain scenes, or make up other random scenes in the verse (a la DD).

If you have any opinions on the matter or any special requests, please let me know and I'll see what I can do. Thanks! :-)


	8. After Ch43

**AN:** After Ch43

Scenario: Harry's still pissed about Tom's behaviour in the tower and for the plotting & obliviate, while Tom's still reeling with uncomfortable emotions. A power-play in the Common Room ensues, ending in dislocated fingers and a promise.

Extract in **bold:**

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**"I'm a psychopath, Harry. Clinically. You know this. You cannot possibly expect me to be - cuddly - like your lions. I do not care about people. I put myself above everyone else, and I always will. I respect you too much to tell you otherwise, I will not lure you in with some false traditional care. It would be nothing but an act -"**

**"Please," he scoffed, even as Tom frowned at the interruption of his 'important speech'. "I never expected you to be cuddly. That would be seriously disturbing. All I ever expected was for you to drop the bloody double standards and the sense of entitlement you seem to have about everyone around you. I have no obligation to you, I put up with your crap by choice. You could do with remembering that every once in while."**

**...**

**"I suppose I can try, on one condition," Tom replied finally.**

**"What?" he asked guardedly.**

**"Never call me 'my lord' again. Not you. It's unnatural. Tom."**

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Harry peered closely into Tom's eyes, and gave a sharp, jerky nod before looking away. He felt completely drained from the twists and turns of the day, all of which once again revolved around Tom.

The sudden feeling of silky cool fingers on his left wrist startled Harry out of whatever brooding pit he had momentarily fallen into, and he looked up at Tom's questioning stare.

It amazed him how the other boy could be so strong, so domineering and demanding, and yet so cruelly gentle. In a strange and convoluted way, he supposed that Tom's actions perfectly reflected his thoughts. Too tired for any further resistance or power plays, Harry surrendered his damaged hand without another question.

The older boy cradled the dislocated fingers, cautiously turning his hand first one way, and then the other.

"You do this to yourself, you know."

Harry couldn't stop the amused snort that escaped. "I guess I'll be renewing my membership to Battered Wives Anonymous, then."

Firm lips curved upwards ever so slightly. "Well, as long as you know your place and don't expect _me_ to be the wife."

The slightly smaller boy felt his eyes begin to sparkle with... _something_. "After the way today's gone, I suspect we'll be taking turns on who wears the dress."

For just a moment, Tom froze as if caught by a new idea, and then appeared to discard it again before continuing the examination. He pulled out his wand and made quick work of relocating the bones in Harry's hand, all while holding tightly onto his wrist to prevent Harry from jerking it away in pain when everything snapped back into place.

However, rather than releasing the boy's wrist when he was done, Tom enfolded it in both of his hands, appearing to seek out every bone, every tendon and joint as if in search of any other injuries he may have missed. Harry looked away from the soothing circular motion of Tom's pale fingers exploring his roughened hand. It was therefore a bit of a shock when he felt something cold and thick being smoothed onto his skin.

His eyes shot up. "Hold on a minute. What's that?" He tried unsuccessfully to pull his hand away from Tom's insistent massage.

"Relax, Harry—it's just a standard bruise salve."

The boy goggled, completely nonplussed. "You carry bruise salve around with you?"

Tom didn't look up, but continued his ministrations on the other boy's hand as the paste was gradually absorbed into the skin.

"It comes standard in the Domestic Violence Starter Pack," he deadpanned.

Harry watched Tom's precise and confident sweeps and tried very, very hard not to think about how wonderful the motion felt on his hand. He had known, as a baffling abstract, that people paid other people to have their backs or even their whole bodies massaged (he remembered hearing Aunt Petunia going on about spa treatments, once). However, now, the idea of having that warming, tingling sensation of slickened hands flow over larger areas of his body was enough to short-circuit his brain. Before he could jerk his hand away in reflex though, Tom had finished.

Harry suspiciously pulled his hand to his face and watched in morbid fascination as the colours blossomed and shrunk and cycled through blue and purple and green and yellow before fading entirely. He didn't know why, but it felt like his hand had become something else, now—like something... _'other'_ to his body, as if it now belonged to Tom as much as it did to him.

He looked up and saw that the other boy had been carefully watching and cataloguing his examination. There was a heavy weight between them, in the space between his fingers and Tom's, thick and sticky as treacle.

...

...

"I think... I think I'm really... sleepy, or something. I'd better go to bed."

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Tom stood there, silent, and gave him a look that vaguely rang of challenge... but he didn't follow as Harry turned and fled back to the dorm.

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**AN:** Not sure why, but the rhythm seemed a bit off with this one, to me. I've tinkered with it a bit now, so we'll see if that helps.

As always, please review if you can. Before I started posting here (about a month ago, now?) I had no idea how much the reviews can matter to a writer. Somehow, I doubt it's just me that feels this way. So if it's not too much trouble to ask, please spare a moment and drop a line to tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what you hope to see in this piece for the future, or anything else that takes your fancy. Also, if you've enjoyed these bits and bobs, you might like some of the other drama drabbles and one-shots I've written which are posted on my profile. Cheers, and thanks for sticking with me!


	9. After Ch51

**AN:** After Ch51

Scenario: Harry, and then Tom just learned about Harry being a Horcrux.

Extract in **bold:**

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**"I don't want to die," Tom continued, quietly now. Those piercing eyes cut up to meet his own. "What is there for me? Hell? Eternal damnation? I'll pass thanks." Harry opened his mouth to speak. "And the alternative? I can tell what you're going to say so don't tell me it might not be like that. As if the alternative is any better - blackness. An eternity of nothingness, possible conscious, but unable to do anything! It's hell anyway you look at it." His voice quietened again. "Not to mention, I've still got so much to do. One lifetime is too short."**

**Something in him ached at the young Dark Lord's words.**

**"You've thought this out," he muttered.**

**"I lived in London through the blitz. I had both time and motivation to think it out."**

**"But horcruxes?" incredulity coloured his tone. Horror and fear. "Splitting your soul? Not to mention, life isn't always so fine and dandy…and immortality? Imagine watching everyone you cared about dying over and over again while you remained the same…frozen in a changing world. That sounds like hell too."**

**"I'll take my chances," Tom stated, a sense of conclusion in his voice. He was closing up, ending the conversation and the topic. "Come on. Let's get you to your lessons, my dear horcrux."**

**"Don't call me that…Merlin, I think I preferred 'Golden Boy.'"**

**This was a nightmare.**

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Whether it was a nightmare for his own sake or Tom's was twisted and roiled together beyond all reason in the hurricane which had seemingly replaced his mind in the wake of the day's revelations.

"You're hardly a 'Golden Boy' when you can calmly discuss my murder with the dear Headmaster, " Tom drawled sardonically.

Already fraying at the seams, Harry was shocked into defensiveness. "But that's not you! That's Voldemort!"

Tom's composure was gone in an instant, and for the first time ever in Harry's presence, he appeared to be losing the battle to retain his self-control. In the mounting tension, Harry could almost hear the echo of Voldemort crucioing his followers, of a boy not much older than Tom, writing his name in flames and declaring seductively, 'Voldemort is my past, present, and future.…'

And then the iron grip was back, sliding into place like a guillotine as Tom took a deep breath, and looked at the younger boy, looked as if his eyes were weapons, stabbing at Harry's rising hysteria, seeming to follow the train of the other boy's thoughts without even the need for legilimency. He spoke to those thoughts, not to Harry, with deadly precision.

"Just because you choose to live in denial does not grant you the ability to make your delusions a reality. My future self may look different, may even act in ways that I find somewhat foreign, but he _is—still—me._ Whatever I become in the future from this point _now_, it is irrefutable that Lord Voldemort would not exist were I not exactly whom you met one year ago. And context aside... Salazar, Harry—_everyone's _appearance and behaviour changes as they grow older. Any 69 year old man would seem a world away from his 16 year old self."

Harry was red-faced with desperation and anger. "But Voldemort isn't a man! He's not even human! Hell, he's less than a dark creature! That's what the Horcruxes do—they grant you immortality at the cost of turning you into an irrational animal! How can you want that for yourself? You're so much better than that!"

"And that is your opinion, based on what? The twisted manipulations of an old man? Your own moral high ground that sneers down upon the values for which we fight? Because you and people you care for have been casualties of a war? Who writes the history, Harry? Who determines the good guys from the bad? It's always the winners. That's your morality_—"to the victor go the spoils"._ How far would you go in your fight to protect what you believe in?"

"I'd never sink to their depths!"

"And yet you never even questioned the idea of destroying not just the life, but the soul of someone you call a friend!"

They stood there, chests heaving as if they had just raced against each other, sprinting to the finish line. Harry's mind was swirling in a kaleidoscope of confusion and painful emotions.

"I can't... I can't _think,_ Tom! I just... my mind is too full—it's too much. I just can't right now." Harry's voice trailed off towards the end, quickly moving from frantic terror all the way to a drained despair.

Tom had settled into stillness. A multitude of possibilities seemed to float over his expression like swift-moving clouds, as they were discarded and replaced.

"You have time, but not much."

He looked at Harry who seemed suspended between bleakness, anguish, and exhaustion. Taking a step forward, Tom gently placed his hand on the other boy's wilted shoulder, flexing his palm slightly in a way that could almost be taken for a reassuring squeeze, were it not for the way his fingertips lingered possessively, seekingly along Harry's arm on the protracted journey back to his side.

"Come. We'll be late for class."

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AN: After re-reading a few chapters further into the story from this point, I realised that what I had written was just _too_ OCC to fit well into my scheme. Tweakage occured, and I'm quite chuffed with the results.


	10. After Ch52

**AN:** After Chapter 52

Scenario: Tom has become smothering since the revelation that Harry is one of his Horcruxes. Harry agrees with Ron & Hermione to spend a Tom-free weekend in order to gain a bit of space and to reconnect with his friends. The day finishes out with Tom evading questions on whether he sees himself becoming Voldemort.

Excerpt in **bold**:

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**Tom was silent, studying him intently.**

**"Those Gryffindors are a bad influence on you. They make you paranoid."**

**There was a rather ominous ring to his tone.**

**Things were only just beginning. This wasn't over.**

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It's like that final moment... after sunset, after dusk... before the sky turns to jet, when there's just enough fading ambient light to make your way home without a torch. The colour reminds me of the wild violets that Aunt Petunia used to make me weed from down the bottom of the garden, back in the Cupboard days. She hates all wildflowers—too untidy and common and uncontrolled. When I was little, I thought that she hated the violets because they were like me—undersized and delicate and surviving unwanted in dark, enclosed spaces. I used to put them in my pockets to sneak back to my special shelf. But they were always wilted, crumpled and shrunken by the time I brought them out again, their sweet perfume turned sickly and decayed.

The husky velvet lustre of evening and the tiny companionable promise of violets surround me. There is something else, too, teasing me with a comforting yet foreboding familiarity. Before it can be grasped though, the association floats away, borne into the visceral deep, deep blue.

I'm lying down, and it's soft and warm and that same familiarity returns, hovering like an elusive scent or a wilful snitch, just out of reach. For some reason, I'm not startled by the first touch, nor by any of the touches that follow. It's as if I came here for the express purpose of submitting, nearly drunk on violets, to these questing hands on my skin. I don't need to see them to know what they look like. All my eyes see is a throbbing blue blue blue, but all my mind can perceive is slender pale fingers, moving authoritatively over my body, silky with purpose.

The hands are everywhere now—my wrists, my hair, my arms, my shoulders, my neck, my jaw, my lips. They explore my hands, my face. It's not until they trace the outline of my chest that I realise that I'm gasping with need. It's that final moment of the game, and I'm pushing the Firebolt to its limits, reaching and reaching...

There are hands below and above me. They squeeze my thighs and perfect fingernails bite into my left forearm. These hands and the violet that cradles me are all I that want, all I've ever wanted. There's a sensation of moving, as if the hands are a river that is swiftly carrying me on, on into the endless deep dark blue. I know that if the river comes to an end, I'll fall up, soaring without the need for any broom.

A rushing sound fills my ears and just at the moment where the hands launch me into the sky... everything turns red.

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I pop up in the bed, panting, my torso bobbing like a jack-in-the-box. It takes me a while to get my bearings and fully break away from the dream of hands, of violets transmuting to blood.

A cooling sensation trickles into my awareness, pushing through the adrenalin. It's centred within my boxers. In utter disbelief that it's finally happened to me, I have to check. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen—at 16 years of age, Harry Potter has finally woken up sticky. It suddenly occurs to me that the other boys my age have had a reason to be embarrassed about this, and that I have no idea if I made any noise during the dream that is swiftly fading past my ability for recollection.

In the darkness of the dorm, the sounds of breathing remain the steady assortment of sinuses that they've always been, and the still lump on the other side of the bed would indicate that Zevi too, has remained undisturbed. Just to be on the safe side though, I grab my glasses to take a quick look around. Everything is as expected... until I reach the bed beside mine.

There, just on the other side of Zevi, a long, lean figure is propped up on deceptively strong elbows. In the shifting shadows thrown by moonlit lake-water, I can just make out the sparkle of dark, knowing eyes.

As I feel my cheeks burn with shame and... shame, I'm abruptly hit by the half-remembered scent of violets... the feeling of water rushing on my skin, caressing me like deft and artful fingers... and the sensation of flying into an eternal burning night.

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**AN:** Poor Harry- he can't even have a wet dream without the connection waking Tom up. But at least he finally got to benefit from Tom's paranoid rule that none of them be allowed to use the curtains round the beds. Ah well.

Thanks so much for the reviews. Please keep them coming!

I've gone back through the previous 10 chapters and tidied each of them up a bit, trying to incorporate suggestions from the comments I've received. I hope you're pleased with the results.


	11. AU request from fanon author

**AN:** I was requested to write a stand-alone one-shot with the following prompt:_ How would Tom react if Lestrange were to actually turn really violent on Harry out of jealousy?_ The results are non-slash (not even the teasing, tense, suggestive stuff I normally write), largely Harry-free, 3rd person objective, and pretty much traditional action & dialogue driven prose. As my mother-in-law would say, "Well... it's something different, isn't it?"

I hope you enjoy!

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The door flew open with such an exploding force that it bounced off the wall and banged shut again.

Dark eyes pulsed like glowing embers as they took in the tableau of three groups caught in a stalemate. In the foreground were the current generation of Slytherins, hovering near the door, clearly undecided on what action was required. In centre stage were, on the left, Zevi holding an unconscious Harry, both boys covered in blood, and on the right, Alphard bodily locked onto a struggling and obviously silenced Cygnus, with Abraxas holding his wand at the ready.

Tom's magic unfurled like clawed wings, dimming the underwater light and causing the torches to flare to life. He turned to Abraxas imperiously.

"Explain."

"We were in the Common Room when we heard the screaming. It didn't sound like one of his normal nightmares, or like a vision, so Alphard and I went to check and help Zevi. However, when we got to the door, it was locked and Zevi was not at his station."

Tom transferred his icy glare to the boy in question, who had been frantically searching his private potions store one-handed, while applying pressure with the other hand. Apparently feeling the weight of Tom's gaze, Zevi looked up and nervously continued the story.

"As you instructed, I had been on guard duty ever since you put him to bed for a nap. Suddenly, I had to use the loo, so I dipped into the dorm and went to use the toilets there. He must have waited until I flushed and washed my hands to strike, because I didn't hear anything until the screaming started." Zevi looked over at Abraxas in a silent plea and then went back to his search. Abraxas picked up where he had left off.

"When we broke in, Zevi was already running to Harry, so Alphard tackled Cygnus, who had told us earlier that he was going to the Common Room Boy's Lavatory. I was the only one who remembered I was a wizard," the blonde gave his brunette compatriots a condescending sneer, "and captured Cygnus' wand."

Tom held out his hand in silent demand. Priori Incantantem revealed a number of severing charms, followed by a full body-bind, followed by a bladder compression jinx. He pocketed the wand, his piercing stare fixed on the wildly expanding visible whites of Lestrange's eyes.

"Zevi, take Harry to the Hospital Wing. Discretion is required. Everyone but Lestrange, leave. Go. Now."

Before anyone else could move, Zevi was out the door like a shot, his arms holding the magically lightened figure protectively close to his body. Tom nodded his head in approval and glared at Alphard until the boy reluctantly released Cygnus and followed Abraxas, tensely backing out of the room in the wake of Harry's fleeing contemporaries.

At the sound of the door closing, Cygnus fell to his knees with his head bowed.

"My Lord." He shivered with fear and the cold that had flooded the room since Tom's entrance.

The usual smirk of gratification that normally graced Tom's face at the abasement of others did not appear. Instead, he circled the shaking boy on the floor, tapping a wand against his palm.

"Tell me, Lestrange," the boy trembled harder at the sound of his surname, "what does it mean to be my follower?"

Cygnus was nearly completely prone in his grovelling, and his voice quivered as much as his body.

"My Lord, it is... it is an honour..."

Tom's voice, in contrast, was sharp and brittle as glass. "And what is the price of that honour?"

"To... to serve you, my Lord..."

"And how do you serve me?"

"By... by doing..."

"Yes?"

Cygnus was now fully prostrate and abject in his terror, attempting to make his body as small a target as possible for the tangible razored edge of Tom's magic. "By doing... as you command, my Lord."

"And what have I commanded in regards to Harry?"

"That... that..." Cygnus was now crying and appeared unable to continue.

"If your memory on that topic fails you, then perhaps you can answer me this," Tom's voice had dropped to a clear and deadly hiss. "Is it the place of mere followers to question their Lord?"

Cygnus' face was buried in his elbows as he clung to the flagstones, fingernails breaking in the crevices. A muffled reply rose from his crumpled form. "No... no..."

"Look at me when you speak, Lestrange."

The boy's robes tightened around his neck as his choking, gasping head was invisibly lifted.

"Now, let's try that again, shall we? Is it the place of the sworn and marked follower to question the Lord—his actions, his motives, his choices, his... preferences?"

Eyes bulging, Cygnus just managed to release a gargled, rasping, "No... my Lord."

"Very good, Lestrange. And who decides on punishments for disobedience and disrespect? Who grants mercy and who determines severity when mercy is exempt?"

Hope warred with uncertainty in Cygnus' purpling face. "You... do... my... Lord..."

The robes were released and the boy's head dropped back onto his arms, the room echoing with his laboured breathing.

"Burn this moment into your mind, Lestrange. You lie on the ground like a filthy beast, nothing but your family's name and my quickly waning grace to hold onto. You are nothing. Not a follower, but a servant. I'd make you start calling me Master, if I didn't know that you'd get some sort of twisted thrill from the act. Know this, Lestrange. You will _never_ get those types of thrills—those which you currently seek—from _me_." Tom leaned down to whisper over the broken form. In a mocking parody of sweetness and promise he hissed, "Not for all the sherbet lemons in the world."

The boy's quivering body froze in an instant as Tom stood back up with a high, cold laugh that plunged the already frigid air into dementor-like frost.

"Did you think to deceive me? I, Lord Voldemort, destined to be the most feared Dark Lord of all time? You see them even now, 50 years into the future and they cower in a terror so desperate that they place all of their hopes on the memory of a baby and a fluke accident. Even Dumbledore admits his powerlessness, or he would never have lowered himself to playing tea time with the likes of you.

"So yes, I know of your betrayal in addition to your insubordination, your disrespect, your disobedience. I could break you—I could crack your skull with my bare hands, I could whip the flesh from your body and then rape you. But I will not—not for mercy but for two reasons. One, you despicable lump—you would no doubt enjoy it—revel in it; and two... well, it should be quite obvious by now, shouldn't it? You disgust me. I want no part of my body in contact with your repulsive flesh. Not even to kick it."

A moist whimper arose from the silence.

"Now... how do I go about punishing such unforgivable crimes as those you've committed, without indirectly rewarding you or directly sullying myself?"

Tom continued his careful path as the whimpers grew into muffled sobs. Suddenly, Cygnus was again hauled up by his robes, gasping frantically for breath through the tightened fabric and the slimy mixture of fluids on his face.

"You will watch."

The boy flinched at the dark intensity and purpose in Tom's eyes as he pulled Cygnus' wand from his pocket. With a casual flick, the boy's left arm was painfully pulled straight and taut. Another swish, and the fabric of his shirt was torn and pushed up. One final gesture and Cygnus cried out as a slash ripped into his dark mark and blood began to well from the wound.

With typical indifference, Tom reached down and coated the other boy's wand with the flowing blood, cautious not to get any on himself. Standing back up, he took his own wand and chanted a long incantation in parseltongue, waving yew and phoenix feather over the now dripping wand, until a small fiery runic brand began to form near the wand tip, with a matching brand appearing on the head of the skull in the bleeding dark mark. When the brands were complete, they drew in the blood around them, clearing all signs of the cut and the mess, before finally sinking into wood and skin, disappearing without a trace.

"Congratulations, Lestrange. You wanted to be something... _special_ to me," Tom sneered, his lip curling in revulsion, "something unique. Well, your Lord is merciful after all. I have granted you your wish. You... are my first _slave_. You and all who follow in your line or are bound to your name through marriage or allegiance, are now foremost bound to me, eternally grovelling and humble, always seeking favour, rarely receiving it. That is my gift. That... and your continued existence. Be sure that you cherish both with far more consistency and care than you granted the blessing of my mark."

Lestrange lay on the floor like a discarded tissue as Tom stalked towards the door, his magic whirling around him in shadowed eddies. Just before exiting, he turned around to deliver a final barb at what used to be 'Cygnus'.

"One last thing, Lestrange. Be assured that you will never know my intentions or motives on anything. However, due to the, if I must say, lovely new additions to your wand and your mark, I will always be apprised of yours. Bear that in mind before you do anything again so... foolish."

With that, he swept out of the room, and the boy on the floor began sobbing in earnest.

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**AN:** Well, that was an experience! Many, many thanks to The Fictionist, whose inspiration continues to help me explore areas of writing I never dreamed I could attempt. I hope you enjoyed this little piece, and I promise to "resume normal broadcasting" soon.


	12. AU request part two

**AN:** So there was a request that I do a little follow up on Harry's reaction to the confrontation between Tom and Cynus. Here's my sneaky take on it...

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Harry had tried everyone—Zevi, Alphard, Abraxas, Draco... even Nott and Zabini—and... nothing. He didn't have a clue what happened that afternoon, other than the fact that Cygnus had been stopped by Alphard and Abraxas, and Zevi had rushed him to the hospital. Tom's name was never even mentioned, but there was no way the other boy hadn't known, hadn't got involved. Salazar, with the level of pain and panic Harry woke up with when he found himself frozen and in the process of getting slashed to bits, Voldemort himself could have been all the way back in Albania, and even he would have known what was going on through the link.

Harry's wild magic had been just enough to break through the bind on his vocal cords and diaphragm so that he could scream his lungs out. It wasn't quite as reassuring as being freed to kick some arse and maybe defend himself, but at least help came. And Salazar, wasn't he bloody sick of being rescued? As much as he hated being called a hero, it would be a thousand times worse if they all suddenly started calling him a damsel in distress. _Ergh._

Right now though, this shutting-out thing they were all doing had him feeling almost as suffocated as when Tom first found out about the horcrux, which made this helpless girly role-reversal thing feel even worse. If it went on for too much longer, he'd just give in and grow his hair out, lock himself in the Astronomy Tower and start calling himself Rapunzel. That would make them happy, bloody cotton-wool-wrapping poncing cowards. He needed to get away, get some fresh air. They could all go play bootlicking, coddling nannies on someone else's time.

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_~fightingfate~_

_._

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The thing Zevi loved about potions—what made them far superior to any other type of magic—was that each potion told a story. There was always a beginning, a middle, and an end. For those few (like himself) who really delved into the field, each and every potion held stories within stories—tales of their creation, of each separate ingredient, of the uses the potion would be put to. No other branch of the magical arts—not even enchanting objects, or creating and breaking wards—was so rich in complexity at every single level. No other magic was as intricately woven with life, with lives, and their shifting tales of triumph and tragedy rippling through history like the steam rising from a perfectly simmering cauldron.

He watched them from a safe distance, hidden behind a tree.

Until he met Tom, Zevi never knew that a single isolated person could be as complicated as an elaborate potion. Usually, it was the dynamic between groups of people, or the dynamic created by inserting a person within a given context, that enabled the cascading stories to unfold. But Tom... Tom was an eternal dance of stillness, appearing motionless in himself but for the blurring along the edges, like a muggle photograph of someone running a race. In every moment, he _was_ the beginning, the middle, and the end, existing upon multiple planes and frames of reference. Tom made stories happen simply by _being_.

Harry never asked, but the question was always there in his guileless green eyes as if he had outright said, "Why do you follow a wannabe dark lord when you're "sorta' nice" and not one of those "nasty" Slytherins out for some sadistic power play?" Thankfully, in spite of his obvious bemusement on the topic, Harry remained silent on this point, and Zevi never brought it up himself as he had no idea how to communicate to the innocent boy that he would have followed Tom even if the Slytherin Heir's goal had been to protect unicorns or to become a seamstress or to commit pureblood genocide.

"People" in the abstract were valuable for the stories they could tell and create—nothing more, nothing less. Zevi wasn't a good listener because he cared, but because he gathered stories with the same avarice and care that he used to harvest rare potions ingredients. And just like meeting Tom had been a revelation, Tom meeting Harry was somewhere between a paradigm shift gone supernova and the birth of Scheherazade's and Homer's lovechild.

Of course, once an individual was no longer part of the abstract collective, Zevi did care about them, and his listening skills were put to use for more than just simple data collection. But even if that weren't the case and he had never come to view them—especially Harry—as friends, Zevi would still have done everything in his power to ensure that he wouldn't miss a moment of this unfolding piece of what he was sure would become a legend to last the ages.

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_~fightingfate~_

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Loathe as he was to tempt Fate (considering what had happened the last time he left Harry to his followers' supervision whilst Tom paid a trip to the Owlery), he took the chance, and of course was now paying the price, once again returning to the dungeons to investigate a spike in Harry's emotions. At least this time Lestrange was no longer a potential threat, and although the rest of his followers were ignorant on what form the punishment took, the results were obvious enough to bring pretty much everyone in the snake pit to heel. That said, Tom still thought that it was a sensible precaution (when dealing with the one resident not under his thumb) to first investigate what might have set Harry off, so that he could be as prepared as possible before chasing him down through the horcrux.

Arriving at his house's entrance, Tom opened the wall and followed the trail of awkward silences that Harry had left in his wake.

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_~fightingfate~_

_._

_._

Albus turned away from the window with a heavy heart. Watching the two fated enemies was like constantly reliving his cursed love for Gellert that seemed so many lifetimes ago, and yet remained ever-present in the stain on his soul.

In the deepest part of his heart, in his very darkest dreams, Albus could admit that he hated the boy—had always hated Tom from the very first moment they met over half a century ago in that grim and faded orphanage. The boy's thirst for revenge had reminded him too much of Albus' father, and what such pointless gestures had cost his family. It was Tom's talent, though, that really set his teeth on edge. Over the ensuing years, it became a nearly physical pain as Albus could never quite decide if the boy reminded him more of Gellert... or of himself. Either way seemed to spell certain doom for the future of peace—in their world, and in the cobbled-together remaining bits of himself.

He had done his best to curb Tom, to make certain that the young Slytherin didn't fall prey to the accolades and bloated attention that had, with dreary dramatic irony, ultimately foretold his sister's death. That the public cries for Albus' intervention in Gellert's promenade through the continent increased in seeming perfect synchronisation with Tom's own emerging leadership, only trebled his antipathy to the boy.

In happier times, Albus had been fond of the saying "Fate makes fools of us all... and it's rather fun to watch." Well, at the moment, She seemed more a cruel mistress than a font of amusement. After all of his safeguards to make sure that Harry's upbringing would be absolutely free of every mistake ever made with himself, with Gellert, with Tom—hoping against hope that Harry's lack of genius and carefully crafted ignorance would do the rest to insulate him from the siren lure of power in the face of destiny... and now Albus stood there and watched, day after day, as his hopes fell and crumbled into so much dust.

Two black heads bent together, and all he could see was auburn and gold curls drifting in the summer's breeze of a dirt-laned Godric's Hollow. Blue and green eyes versus red and yellow hair—Merlin, he detested the founders some days... almost as much as he despised maudlin symbolism... and the piercing inevitability of history repeating itself again and again and again and again.

.

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_~fightingfate~_

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"Do you have any idea what she's responsible for? What all three of them have done? The fate of the Longbottoms is on your hands, Tom- _yours,_ not Voldemort's! Who knows what Bellatrix would have been like if she hadn't married a Lestrange? Maybe Neville's parents would have stood a chance if it were just three against two, instead of four against two! And if Neville had grown up with his parents..."

Tom had stood there impassively with his violet eyes frosted and unreachable as Harry ranted. "Would what? If Longbottom had been raised by his parents he wouldn't be nearly a squib today? And if you had known your parents...?"

"Dammit! This isn't about me, Tom!"

"No, actually Boy Wonder, it is. You could just as easily conjecture, 'What if you hadn't spent time with me, so that I wouldn't choose to punish those who act against you?' Have you regretted now your decision to associate with me, if outcomes such as these might be the result?"

"Wha..? No! I thought you just said that he'd been punished for disobeying you and betraying you to Dumbledore! How does that have anything to do with us... you know...?"

Tom couldn't help but smirk at Harry's confusion and awkwardness. It would be adorable, really, if it weren't so irritating.

"Why do you think Dumbledore courted him? Not to thwart my existence, surely- he has enough sense to leave time, at least, un-meddled with. No, it was to protect you, to entice you back under his heavy hands. And what, precisely, do you think Lestrange had disobeyed me on? Do you think it merely coincidence that his punishment immediately followed your torture?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and mockingly mimicked Tom's cool posture. "And here I thought you were dedicated to freeing me from my "uneccessary" guilt."

A lifted silky eyebrow preceded, "I'm dedicated to freeing you from many things, sweetheart, including your stubborn insistence on reallocating blame away from the actual perpetrators. Whatever the Lestranges and Crouch did to the Longbottoms, I seem to remember reading that it occurred _after_ Gramps' supposed demise, therefore, they are the only ones who are responsible. Fancy that? People independently making their own choices..."

"But if you hadn't bound them as slaves! Of course they'd go mad, desperate to please you, never to succeed!"

Tom frowned. "Funny... gothic romances aside, I don't remember reading anywhere in the "Basic Human Interactions for Dummies" guide that unrequited love always leads to madness. Perhaps I missed a footnote somewhere."

Amidst his sudden sputtering, Harry managed to strangle out, "Unre.. what? Love! What do you mean?"

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_~fightingfate~_

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Zevi watched, disillusioned, from behind the tree. He had found it necessary to track down Harry and offer comfort often enough in the past year that he was fairly familiar with all of the boy's bolt holes. At the moment, this knowledge had enabled Zevi to track them down without having to risk following Tom too closely behind after the Heir had breezed out of the Common Room not that long ago.

As he watched the two boys begin their dance, Zevi reflected that sometimes the magnetic pull between Tom and Harry was so strong that the drawing and repelling energy leaked to everyone around them. He wondered how many times the force that bystanders took for magical power was actually the vibrating echo of their personalities coming into resounding contact.

It was always the same. Tom pursued; Harry retreated and then stood stoically. Tom grabbed, and Harry fought, then stilled, then fought again. Skin flushed and paled like lapping crimson-streaked waves on a pristine shore. Aggression turned to comfort turned to lingering silent communion. The intimacy should have been embarrassing to watch, but it was too radiant, too pure to resonate on anything but a conceptual, aesthetic level. Strange that something so deeply defining to the two boys could be remote and impersonal to those few who watched.

Well, perhaps not to everyone. There were those who saw and craved—like Lestrange, like Weasley. Perhaps even for Dumbledore, a personal chord was struck amidst his tiresome machinations. For Zevi though, right now, he felt like he was watching the birth of a great work of art. Someday he would tell his progeny that he had been there, had witnessed the blossoming lotus, had basked in the glancing rays of its sun. Tell them that it was beautiful and that it had changed him in its beauty, that it had changed _them._

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_~fightingfate~_

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Thoughtful green eyes turned away from the brooding lake and glanced back into piercing violet. After a moment of intense scrutiny, Harry gave a brief nod.

"Come." Tom took the other boy's rough and sweaty hand in his, and quietly led him back to the castle.

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**AN:**

1) 21/10/11: Just did a little tidy-up and added a bit about Bellatrix and more Tom/Harry face time, as per request and earlier promise. Hope you enjoy! I decided to end that bit unresolved so that there would still be a bit of mystery over the exchange that Zevi and Dumbledore witnessed from a distance. Please let me know what you think- if it should remain like this, or if you think it needs just a little more fleshing out.

2) [For when this chapter was posted as Fighting Fate Chapter 15...] ***Super-mondo thanks for all of the reviews! You guys are terrific! xoxo***

3) Dumbledore's formerly favourite quote is from _**Seamus is Seamus and You are Yourself**_ by Ari Munami.

4) Zevi's mention of the lotus is a reference to a quote from Madeleine L'Engle's A House Like a Lotus: **"'In this body, in this town of Spirit, there is a little house shaped like a lotus, and in that house there is a little space. There is as much in that little space within the heart as there is in the whole world outside.' Maybe that little space is the reality of your you and my me?" **...which in turn refers to the writing of Chandogya Upanishad.


	13. After Ch57

**AN:** This is a much longer chapter than I usually write. The first half is another "Harry ponders" instalment, and the second half is a conversation between Harry and Zevi in the Hospital Wing. In a way, it deals with a lot of the same topics as in _Fate's Favourite _ch60, but with a different set of not neccessarily mutally-exclusive answers.

**After 57:** Harry wakes up from a coma after he, Tom, and Voldemort have their first face-to-face showdown in Hogsmeade during a DE raid that interrupted Harry's planned Tom-free weekend. [The extract below in **bold** is from the fight.]

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**Now they both had their backs to the Death Eaters, but Harry figured Voldemort was by far the greater threat. Besides, if Voldemort was **_**anything **_**like Tom, then he probably wouldn't allow the Death Eaters to kill either of them. He hadn't in the Graveyard. He wanted to kill Harry himself, though this was definitely the first time Harry found that to work in his advantage.**

**It was the first time in a long time that he was looking for the similarities, not the differences.**

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_**Now**_

When he did it, he didn't know that he was permanently crossing a line that would allow no retreat. It was just his defensive skills coming to the fore—reacting and trying to once again wring survival out of an impossible situation, instinctively assessing any potential weaknesses in his enemy, trying to predict the moves that will be made against him, so that he in turn can plan for escape.

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_**Then**_

Harry had become increasingly aware of the lines blurring between him and Tom. Feeling the other boy's fear had been something of a shock—usually it was Tom who sensed Harry's emotions, not the other way around. Really, ever since finding out that he was one of Voldemort's horcuxes everything had become all the more confusing. And Tom treating Harry like one of his own horcruxes (even though the older boy had long ceased to be, by the time the one in his scar was created), made it that much more difficult to separate the two dark lords from each other, from himself.

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_**Tom seemed to think he was some sort of punny Helen Keller joke come to life**_

It was frustrating to have to keep reminding Tom (though to be fair, he had to keep reminding himself, too) that he wasn't stupid. Every time Tom spoke, Harry listened, he usually understood, and he always remembered, even if he used his well-developed skill for compartmentalisation to keep things as steady as possible. So yeah—he got the fact that Voldemort would not have been able to exist without Tom. How could he not? After all, he'd actually spoken with the unrelenting bastard back when he was, for all intents and purposes, the same boy he now counted as pretty much his closest... companion, for lack of a better term.

And it was sort of hard to miss that Tom didn't seem particularly regretful about his theory regarding the rememberall, nor that Tom was... ergh... practically enthusiastic about Horcruxes, which certainly spoke of at least a... well a certain comfort level, for Salazar's sake, about horrible evil things like ... like cold-blooded killing and ripping your own soul apart.

But just because he wasn't stupid or blind didn't mean that he could wrap his head around it. Who could? Really, could any even halfway sane person completely and totally comprehend and accept time travel, paradoxes, souls, and your best friend being sort of the same person as the big murdering git who'd been trying to off you your entire life? It was like every time he tried to grasp it conceptually and concretely, his common sense just baulked and before he knew what had happened, the whole mess had been whisked away through the various locked doors in his mind labelled "For Later Or Maybe Never". Harry paused at the idea of having his very own Cupboard-Under-the-Stairs housing his psyche, before shrugging the thought off, ironically noting as it floated away, that it probably went "back into the cupboard".

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_**It's not abuse if there's no victim, right? Besides, being "well adjusted" is an overrated myth**_

It was more than that though—more than the defacto denial/'boxing things up' and the headache-inducing complexity and surreality of the situation. Trying to put into words the other, more important reason for keeping the two Slytherin Heirs separate was nearly impossible, but Harry knew that the thought-chain ironically began with his most recent argument with Tom. The other boy (and now, unfortunately, Ron and Hermione as well) was always banging on about his emotional abuse. Fine, he wasn't hugged enough as a child. He got it. But what Tom didn't really get—what no one seemed to get was that Harry's denial about being abused wasn't just a symptom—it was an answer to their question.

The thing was, that for Harry, the question of abuse wasn't about what people did to him, but rather about how it affected him. And the truth of the matter was that Tom—clearly abused at the orphanage—would have been abused at the Dursleys, too. Take Tom (and probably lots of other kids, or hell, every kid in the world besides Harry), and stick him in a cupboard for ten years, and feed him scraps and work him like a house elf, and belittle him at every turn, and having a psychopath on your hands would probably have been the least of your worries.

Likewise, Harry suspected, that had he grown up in Tom's orphanage, he might not have had quite as many little issues as he had now (he really was sick of lectures on self-worth and hero complexes), but he would still be more or less the same person—not perfect, but not a complete mess, either. And really, who was perfect? Ron and Hermione both came from stable homes, and were they really all that better adjusted than he was?

Sure, Harry had never been Mr. Popular, but neither had they. Whenever one of them had broken off from their little trio, Ron had always retreated to just tagging along with his brothers or sister, and Hermione just stuck to her books and herself. He wondered if that wasn't part of the problem with them now—the fact for the first time someone in their little group had managed to make friends outside of the other two. Harry wondered if they were jealous and maybe a bit threatened that he now had a large group that he ran with where they weren't really welcome to tag along, and well... that he had a lot of options for company now if the three of them had yet another falling out.

Harry shook his head and tried to get back to the point he had been trying to work through. Really, it all came down to nature v. nurture. While he agreed that nurture helped to a point (what would Tom have been like if he had grown up in a loving, but strict home? psychopathic didn't automatically equal homicidal, right?), but in the end, nature always seemed to win out, and he considered himself the perfect example. Harry wasn't abused, because somehow, some part of him managed to not let himself be abused. Sort of, but that's not really what he was trying to say. Maybe, it's that Harry just didn't let himself revolve around the role of being a victim. Did that make what the Dursleys did right? No. Did it mean that he wasn't hurt by what they had done? Of course not. Would their actions have been abuse with almost anyone else? Probably. Yeah, okay- definitely (the idea of, say, Hermione or, or Neville, or even Zevi leading his life made him white-hot with anger). Would it have been the kid's fault? Absolutely not.

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_**Powered by Mum**_

This was the thing—the whole crux of it all. If he really thought about it, Harry was fairly certain that it came back to blood magic, to whatever his mum had done that night to save him and destroy Voldemort. He was pretty sure that it all ran deeper than just burning up Voldemort with his touch... before the bastard stole his blood, of course (he really could have used that trick in Hogsmeade).

Anyway, something so powerful as to deflect an Avada Kedavra must have had more lasting effects than just the power to sizzle evil bastards. That night in the graveyard, Voldemort had mentioned something about him being more protected than he had known. He wasn't entirely certain what that was about (no doubt it involved more secrets that Dumbledore chose to keep from him), but it made a certain sense that part of the protection was this... whatever the hell it was that kept him from reacting to his home life the way probably any normal kid would have.

And Harry figured it must be this same... well, gift... from his mum that was the driving force in how he viewed the whole Tom v. Voldemort mess. Because the one constant in his life was that he never ever ever gave up hope. He never gave up, period. Your only friend is a bloody spider hanging around your cramped cot? Fine, just keep drawing pictures of your dreams, and don't ever stop hoping that someday, someone will take you away from it all. Don't ever stop making wishes on your birthday, even if you don't have any candles to blow out. And sure enough, he had a bit of a wait, but eventually, Hagrid had come, and that one day had made the hundreds of days of wishing all worth the wait because it was all so much better than anything he could have ever hoped for, imagined, or dreamed.

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_**Tom was wrong about Harry's delusions**_

Okay, in the end it wasn't all roses and fairytales, but the wishing had still worked, at least when he needed it most. He was pretty certain that almost anyone else without this power to dream a better reality, a better outcome into existence might not have survived half the stuff he had. For a long time he had denied that it was anything special, but as he thought more about what his mum's sacrifice had meant, the easier it was to accept that yeah, the stuff he had accomplished—the messes he had survived—were all pretty damn amazing. And it was okay that it was amazing because he could pin the power and the ability on his mum and not have to worry about getting a big head or taking too much for granted.

And that's why (or at least one of the biggest "why"s) he worked really, really hard at keeping Tom and Voldemort as two separate people. He hoped with all of his might that eventually they would be, and he hoped that by hoping hard enough, his special "mum-power" would kick in and make it so. When Voldemort told them that the paradox was fading, well, sure he felt a mixture of relief and worry. Mostly though... especially now that he'd had time (lots of it—Salazar, he hated the Hospital Wing) to think about it, mostly what he felt was triumph. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, but even if that were the case, taking some sort of credit would only help boost the power of his positive thinking, right?

Still, no amount of success real or imagined could change the fact that the whole situation was screwy. He wanted, needed (for the sake of winning this particular battle) so badly to believe that Tom and Voldemort were separate and that he could turn Tom from that path. That's why he kept prodding at Tom—trying to surprise... a confession of doubt, maybe... or at least to keep things fresh in the other boy's mind and to (as subtly as was possible for Harry) remind Tom that he hadn't forgotten his own mission.

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_**The nice thing about the hospital, is that there's always plenty of headache cure on hand**_

Meanwhile, Tom seemed to vacillate between frustration over Harry's apparent blindness, and deliberately wrapping him in cotton wool to... well, who knows? To keep Harry in the dark—naive and ignorant? Meanwhile, Harry was doing his own careful juggling between the compartments and his mum-power, all the while trying to take in the various twists and turns of the fluctuating and blurring lines between him, Tom, and Voldemort. And he didn't even want to think about the fact that on top of all of this, he had to deal with the completely opposing expectations of everyone around him.

Hm... maybe spending all this time in the Hospital Wing wasn't so bad after all. Salazar knew that he hadn't had hardly any moments alone to really think things through since September. Just a couple stolen here and there from Tom—never really enough compared to the long periods of solitude he was used to from the first fourteen years of his life. But now, it was a relief to have put some of the mess into words- it helped him get a handle on things. He guessed Tom was right- words really could give you a sense of control over your environment.

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_**It's always better to talk to a voice outside of one's head than in it**_

Ironically, this train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the cautious appearance of Zevi, about whom he had started to feel slightly guilty for starting to view as a surrogate Tom in the absence of the more dynamic boy. He covered up the slight twinge from his conscience with a warm smile that he gave as the "nice one" from their set quietly took the seat next to his bed.

"Hey. Good to see you. Isn't it a bit late, though?"

Zevi shrugged and gave a wry grin. "Just came out of detention with 'Professor Snape'." The tone of his voice when he mentioned the title left no question about what he thought of the whole thing, and Harry winced in sympathy.

"That bad?"

"Meh. Same old, same old, really. It was mostly an excuse to grill me about the family history while he squirmed between obviously wanting to hate me and at the same time revere me. All a bit much, really."

Harry's previous guilt went up a notch. His friends really meant a lot to him, and he would fight for them and do anything in his power to help them if they needed him, but in day-to-day life, he tended to be too wrapped up in his own dramas to pay much attention to theirs. Beyond the occasional amusement at similarities between Zevi and Snape, and a vague awareness that the greasy git was almost as uncomfortable with his... well, grandfather, as he was with the nearly carbon-copy son of his teenaged nemesis, the whole thing was pretty peripheral to his life and so hadn't managed to pierce the bubble.

"Huh. What's it like? It must be sort of... well, weird, for you too, to you know, have your future grandson as the most hated professor in Hogwarts, not to mention the one in charge of the Potions labs and stores."

Zevi looked thoughtful, and then slowly responded. "Well, to borrow one of your horrid modern muggle expressions, it basically sucks. I can't exactly ask him any questions in return, because we're all—except Tom, of course—supposed to stay as clueless as possible about our futures so that we don't inadvertently wreck anything. It was dangerous enough for such a large group of us to move into the future, that it would be madness to take any further risks. And of course, without knowing why part of the man seems to hate me, let alone why his surname is "Snape"—one that I've never even heard of—there isn't much that I can do to mitigate the situation. Salazar, I never thought I'd see the day that I would actually envy the blonde poncy git, but after that initial awkwardness with him and Draco..."

"Wait—what happened between Abraxas and Draco?" Salazar, he was out of the loop.

Zevi shrugged. "It was just the first couple of days after we arrived, while you were still with the Gryffindors. I've never met a less discrete Slytherin in my life... well, other than you, I suppose, but you hardly count. All I know is that in the end, we all signed an agreement, Tom had to obliviate the four of us, and the current Slytherins all had to take magical oaths to not reveal anything in our hearing about our future selves.

"There are exceptions of course. It can't exactly be hidden that Abraxas and I each have a grandson, nor that Abraxas has a son who was on the Board of Governors and is still rather involved in politics, nor that amongst the rather infamous former Azkaban prisoners who have escaped in recent times, three bear the surname "Lestrange", and one the surname "Black". Everything else though that can be hidden—our careers, our spouses, our fame—everything that pertains to us as individuals is being kept under lock and key. And the "adults" around us—including my hygienically-challenged grandson—all appear to have reached the same conclusion. Either that, or Tom has placed some sort of ward or charm on us without our knowing—something like a variation on an age line or a muggle-repelling charm."

Harry nodded slowly. That all made a lot of sense, but increased his sense of guilt. "I'm really sorry, Zevi—I didn't think about how all of this was affecting you guys or how it all worked. It must be really frustrating, especially since Tom doesn't seem to bother with any of the same precautions."

Zevi shrugged. "Tom is Tom, and from everything I've heard, Snape is Snape. I think even if I were able to discuss what my future self has done to twist his knickers, he'd still be a right plonker. Abraxas and Draco are two peas in a pod now that they've established their individual swanning territories, and they make an effort to avoid pissing contests when forced to encroach on each other's space. Alphard's just along for the ride and treats the whole thing as an amusing parlour game that is completely separate from his own reality, and Cygnus is too obsessed with Tom and worrying about Tom's obsession with you to be aware of much else around him."

Harry began to shift uncomfortably at the mention of him and Tom, particularly in that context. "Obsession, Zevi? Isn't that a bit strong? Is this where you warn me off again about how I don't know the real Tom and how I should keep my old friends on standby until I finally get a taste of the Dark Lord you all know and respect-stroke-fear?"

Zevi leaned back and regarded Harry quietly. Normally, it was Zevi's calm reserve and methodical approach to things that endeared the boy to Harry, but right now, especially considering his train of thought before Zevi's visit, it just made him nervous. Thankfully, before Harry could give up and embarrass himself by blurting out a blunt question, Zevi continued as if there had been no pause at all.

"I think... I think I was wrong, Harry. No—hear me out." He held up a hand to forestall Harry's anticipated objection. "No, this has nothing to do with our previous conversations, and any follow-ups I may or may not have had with Tom. I... you're different, Harry. You're as different from us as Tom is, and at the same time, you and Tom are just as different from each other. When you prick, you bleed. I guess I just never realised that Tom bleeds too."

Harry looked at the other boy sceptically. "What are you on about, Zevi?"

"You didn't see him, Harry. I thought it was... well, odd... bad... I don't know... when Tom carried you back last month when you had that episode with the scar. You know—the day you guys sacked the toad?" He waited for Harry's confused nod before continuing. "Well, that was nothing—_nothing—_compared to this last time. I've never seen him like that. Salazar, we were _scared,_ Harry. It was just so... _not _Tom. The only thing I managed to drag out of him was that your heart had stopped and he had needed to use a spell to restart it."

Harry nodded again. Tom _had _seemed pretty fixated on that point, and was obviously stressed enough to feel furious about Harry's past and to... well, communicate a certain level of concern hitherto unknown from Slytherin's Heir. Zevi continued, speaking slightly softer now, as if worried he might frighten away the new ideas that had been cautiously rearing their heads.

"I used to worry about you, Harry. Worry that you were in too deep, that you'd become a pawn, that you wouldn't be able to see through Tom's disguises and that one of his games would end up with you hurt. I used to think that you capturing his attention could only end in one of three ways—a war, your death, or your immortality." He paused, surprised and concerned at Harry's reaction to the word "immortality". Harry could have kicked himself for not catching his flinch in time to suppress it. Thankfully, Zevi appeared to put the observation to the side, rather than open up a line of questioning that Harry had no idea how to avoid without generating further suspicion.

"Anyway, after seeing Tom's reaction over the idea of you dying, and then hearing you moan about him setting your friends on your case, I'm not really worried about the former two ideas. That is unless..."

Harry took the bait, eager to avoid any discussion on Zevi's third option. "Yes...?"

Zevi cocked his head in a way that had no doubt been subconsciously copied from Tom. "War or death are only a danger now if Tom's feelings are one-sided."

Harry sputtered. "Whoa—_feelings_? You told me he was straight!"

"Calm down, Harry. You lived in our dorm for a year. Did you ever see Tom do anything to indicate that he was aroused by the male form? Surely you were aware of all of the propositions he turned down. I've gathered that such liaisons are rather more common in our time than in yours, but just know that Tom had a rough time of it in First Year. Accepting an offer of... sponsorship would have made his life far easier."

"Wait-... what?"

Zevi shook his head, obviously astounded at the depth of Harry's obliviousness. He went into lecture mode.

"The 19th century in Muggle Europe brought a renewed interest in Greco-Roman culture. We had been split from the muggles quite comprehensively since the Secrecy Act in the late 17th century. But here in Britain, the flame of empire and the rapid industrial expansion brought the muggles much more prominently into contact with us all, in what to wizards was a very short period of time. The waning power of the church meant that we no longer had to completely separate the muggleborns from their families, as the occult gained marginal popularity during the reign of their queen. This meant that the bleed-through of muggle culture to ours was sudden, immense, and rather thorough. One of the aspects that was adopted, was that during this time, same-sex liaisons became... less uncommon (although still discrete, and rather... well, rude, not to mention illegal) amongst the powerful elite, both for those in creative fields and for those descended from the highest echelons of society."

Harry was completely bewildered by the impromptu and rather risqué history lesson. "Erm... okay..."

"It was all about pleasure and power and learning secrets and forming alliances—all things that are at the heart of the Slytherin credo. In our time, this mentality is in a stark decline (obviously, considering how Slytherin operates today), but still—and I don't know how on earth you missed it—particularly in our house, the... teasing environment of exploration and conquest, and the more serious facet of establishing hierarchy... well, I suppose it's possible that you never noticed because OWL Year is traditionally the year in which students transition from propositioned to propositioning... "

Harry had caught on, and interrupted before he could feel any more embarrassed. "And you're saying that Tom never participated?"

"Never. And even though none of this really has much to do with being bent or straight, can you see why we all find your concerns over Tom's sexual orientation rather amusing?"

Harry nodded, wondering why he didn't feel relieved, and what that... thing... was that was niggling at the back of his head. For some reason, that feeling of 'something missing', came attached to a half-remembered floral scent that he was sure wafted in from his childhood. Harry mentally shook his head to clear it, and thought again over what Zevi had explained. He almost wanted to ask if he and the others had participated in the... well, rather hedonistic culture he'd described, but in the end decided he was happier not knowing. Looking back at how the whole topic had come about, though...

"So.. erm.." he cleared his throat, and Zevi, who had obviously been waiting patiently for Harry to assimilate the new information, smirked at his discomfort. "Right, so... _feelings_. You're asking me if I _care_ about Tom, then? Like, as a friend?"

Zevi nodded seriously. Harry thought back to everything that had happened since he had woken up in the Hospital Wing this last time, and all of the hours he'd had to just lie there and mull over his situation.

"I... yes, I care about Tom. And yes, it's complicated, but whenever one of us tries to shut the other out, or gets huffy about the wrong thing being said or done, we always manage to eventually hash it out. Hm... I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I don't think Tom's any more or less invested in me than I am in him, and that yeah—we hurt each other, but we work through it. I think that's what's kept things from imploding so far, you know... the fact that it's anything _but _one-sided..." Harry trailed off, uncomfortable. He sodding _hated_ talking about this sort of thing.

Zevi's shoulders relaxed marginally, and Harry realised that his friend had indeed been quite concerned. "I guess all we have to worry about then is Tom trying to make you immortal."

This time, Harry was pretty sure nothing had slipped, which was a good thing as Zevi had been watching his reactions closely. Instead, the laugh they shared at Zevi's comment had come across as natural and unhindered.

Zevi reached down to give Harry's arm a farewell pat, and then gathered his bag up, heading back to the Common Room in time for curfew.

Removing his glasses, Harry lay down and tried to force himself into an early sleep. He had done enough thinking for one night. Salazar, he couldn't wait to get out of there.

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**AN:** The "history lesson" above is based less on actual history, and more on vague memories of an awesome BBC production of _Tipping the Velvet_, by Sarah Waters, plus random rumours of English public school life, and a conversation I had about ten years ago regarding a huge crop of early 20th century British and American composers who all happened to be gay, either in or out of the closet. Ultimately, HP canon history seems to be much easier to investigate than real history, mostly I suspect, because there's less of it. ;-p

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated, and the ones I've received for this story have really helped a lot. If you read gen and are interested, I'd be very grateful if you could spare a moment to drop a line (constructive criticism in some cases desperately needed) on any of the other little one-shots and drabbles posted on my profile. Some of them have gotten lots of visitors, and even been added to alerts and favourites and C2s, but without reviews, I have a hard time figuring out how to make them better, and people are much less likely to give them a chance and read. Many thanks! :-)


	14. After Ch62

**AN:** After Chapter 62. This chapter takes place a couple of days between _FF_ chapters 62 and 63. The last we saw of the dynamic duo in fanon, Tom & Harry pulled a fast one on Voldie, and later, Harry reassured his bosom buddy that Tom was anything _but_ weak.

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They were back in the RoR, Tom lounging with unstudied grace on the couch, Harry sprawled less elegantly in front of the flickering fire, the shifting open sky above them both. Tom had been using this setting more and more of late, and although it left Harry feeling somewhat suspicious, he wasn't about to complain. Something about the warmth of the flames and the freedom of the sky deeply comforted him, and spoke to a growing consciousness within him that had been blossoming steadily since Tom's journey to the present.

"Harry..." the younger boy looked up and saw Tom's eyes bright with curiosity, dark with something... something like hunger. He raised his eyebrows to indicate that Tom had his attention.

"Why aren't you afraid of death?" That the question was so childlike in its simplicity, in its innocence, put Harry on edge. It was almost like one of Tom's tests, but not. The older boy was clearly granting him a small measure of power, but rather than the power to choose, or to prove himself, this felt like an altogether different type of opportunity.

Harry took a moment to give the question serious consideration before carefully offering a response. "Well... you can probably guess that the Dursleys never took me to church..."

"Didn't you get RE in school?"

Harry nodded. "Some, but it was a bit of a joke. I don't know what the Archbishop of Canterbury was like in your time, but when I was in school, everyone hated him—the government, the churchgoers—everyone. So there was a lot of internal fighting and most of our classes were either rants about Runcie or just random "interfaith" stuff simply because it pissed Runcie off."

"That would certainly explain your shocking secularism. Ours wasn't necessarily a bad sort—traditional, ambitious, spoke his mind..."

Hary chuckled. "Yeah, I can see how that would appeal to you. For a rebellious dark lord, you sure seem to have a lot of respect for certain authority figures."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You can't command respect from others without ever having given it yourself." He gave the younger boy a sly look. "That's probably why no one seems to respect you."

Harry snorted, and then sighed, wondering when Voldemort had forgotten the lesson about respect being a two-way street. "Maybe. I don't really worry about whether people respect me, but I generally tend to give respect only when it's... _personally_ earned... like, directly to me, by doing something to get on my good side. Otherwise, I suppose I'm pretty neutral and just wait for people to either show themselves to be friends or enemies. Anyway, back to your question... I guess... if you take all of the religious claptrap away, I mean... what does anyone really know about the afterlife?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You do remember when I took you to meet Helena?"

"Well, yeah, but all she talked about was that most wizards and witches choose to 'move on'. It's not like she had any idea if they were actually going somewhere, and if so, where they were going to. I'm sorry Tom, but the whole idea of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory just seems pretty far-fetched to me, even after everything I've seen in the magical world. I'm more inclined to believe in reincarnation, or that you become part of some sort of universal consciousness, or even that your beliefs shape whatever sort of afterlife you end up in—that you basically... wish into existence whatever happens next."

"But you don't know."

Harry looked completely unconcerned. "Nope, but I'm willing to gamble and would rather lose the bet—just fade into nothingness than live in pain. I've already seen Hell, Tom, and it's _here_. It's war and crazy evil bastards who steal your blood so that they can kill innocent people. Nothingness is a blessed relief when you're being held under a Cruciatus. Empty silence is a godsend when the alternative is everyone glaring at you and shouting awful things, or the sound of people you care about screaming."

The expression in Tom's eyes was closed off, but Harry could have sworn he felt a shiver of fear through the connection.

"Maybe that's why it scares you—you've just had it too easy." He pre-empted any interruptions. "And don't give me any crap about the orphanage and being a suspected mudblood in Slytherin. You've always been the strong one—just like I was saying the other day. Maybe you had 'periods of suck' before you managed to defend yourself, but you've never had to literally fight for your life. You know how you felt when my heart stopped? Well imagine if you hadn't been able to convince Voldemort to get me healed. Imagine I had died, and then imagine if there were more than one of me, and you had to live with that fear for every single one."

"One boy hero is more than enough, thank you." Tom's voice was tight. Harry could see that he was getting through, at least a little bit.

"The reason why I'm not afraid of dying is because I know that there are worse things out there than death. And sure, being a psychopath gives you a get-out-of-jail-free card on the survivor's guilt and dealing with the loss of people you care about as much as, or more than, you care about yourself, but I don't think it keeps you safe from loss in general, or pain, or feeling helpless. Even Voldemort feels those things, and trust me, he doesn't like them, either."

While Tom quietly digested what he'd just said, Harry thought about Zevi's theory on Tom making him immortal. He realised that this was his big chance.

"And there's more to it than that. It's not just a matter of not being afraid of death. I _want_ to die, sometime—hopefully not until I'm really old, but I wouldn't want to live forever, even if there was no war, no Voldemort, no pain, no fear. I'd still want to die at some point."

For once, Tom couldn't quite hide the shock that flooded his face. "How can you say that? Look at Flamel—look at what he's accomplished!"

Harry scoffed. "Not bloody much, as far as I can tell. Sure, the Philosopher's Stone was an amazing achievement, but he did that well within his normal lifespan. After that, he pretty much spent the next five centuries sitting on his arse, for all we know, up until he and Dumbles decided to play chemistry set with dragon's blood."

Tom would not be deterred, and his eyes were lit with the manic flame of possibilities. "That's because he was weak! Didn't he just give up at the end of your first year, even though you rescued his precious stone for him? The gift was _wasted_ on Flamel!" In his furvour for the topic, Tom energetically sat up and leaned forward, magnetic in engagement, glowing with charisma.

"Imagine endless lifetimes to mould the world! You could literally build empires—no plan would be too long-term. Tiny adjustments here and there and no one would even notice that their own "unique" ideas were simply the unfolding of your great design. You could master every language, every art. Come on, Harry—you and I have both talked about our lack of travel. Well, forget travel! We could spend a lifetime in every culture, in every corner of the globe. There would be no secrets left—every mystery would fall on its knees before us!"

That Tom, in his fire, had switched to plural when talking of his plans, did not escape Harry's notice. And as chilling as he found that, he had to admit that Tom's plans certainly held an allure. However...

"And then what?"

Tom was abruptly brought back to earth. "What do you mean?"

"Once we've unravelled all of the mysteries of the world, what do we do next, oh Immortal One? Do we hop into space? Seek out new life and new civilisations? Boldly go where no one has gone before?" At Tom's blank expression, Harry was once again reminded how annoying it was that Tom grew up pre-telly. "Well, forget about it. I can barely handle floo travel and portkeys—I'm not about to chance actually leaving the earth's atmosphere. Anyway, it sounds great in principle and everything, but ultimately, I think it would get a bit boring after the first few centuries."

"Boring!"

"Think about it. If it was all that great, then why did Voldemort come back after only 20 years? And why didn't he use some of that subtlety you were talking about? From everything I've read, the 70s were less about tiny adjustments and more about kidnappings, murders, destruction of property, and random skirmishes."

"Don't ask me why Gramps does anything. I've already admitted that I often fail to see the reasoning in his actions."

"And doesn't that worry you?"

Tom obviously knew what Harry was getting at and waved his hand dismissively. "There's no reason to believe that his apparent mental deficiencies are due to the horcruxes. That magic doesn't destroy the soul, after all—it merely reallocates where and how the soul is housed. Lord Voldemort's current state could be the result of any of the research and experiments he conducted during his travels. Why would dividing the soul make him serpentine, for instance? That's far more likely to be the result of an obscure parselmagic ritual, which could have had any number of additional and unexpected non-visible side-effects."

Harry snorted. "And you say I'm in denial."

Tom swiftly dropped off of the sofa and kneeled before the other boy, reaching out and grabbing his shoulder. "Don't." Although his eyes were still glowing with the vision of a limitless future, the set of his clenched jaw showed how deadly serious he was taking this.

Harry didn't even bother to try to throw off the vice-like grip which now kept him in place. Instead, he countered Tom's stubbornness with his own. "Don't what?"

"Don't just toss aside possibilities as if they were meaningless."

"If you want more time to do everything, why not just become a ghost? Or get a bunch of extra-juiced paintings in place, or something?"

Tom gave Harry a thoughtful look, and then sat down next to him, so close that their hips were nearly touching. With a little coaxing from the hand he had kept on the smaller boy's shoulder, he soon had them both lying down, looking at the clouds drifting overhead. He turned his head back to Harry and found green eyes already staring at him, wearing a look of patient expectation. Tom pointed to the sky.

"That's why. I want that. I want everything." He shifted onto his side to face Harry, supporting his head with one arm while the other casually reached over and began the customary ritual of sifting through the wild ebony locks. Harry didn't know why, but lately, Tom's touch had gained something of an echo in his mind, almost like déjà vu, as if each meditative stroke of the older boy's fingers were a fragment from a half-remembered dream.

"Freedom... endless freedom, and the power to explore it. I can't do that tied to a wall or a plot of land."

Harry couldn't help feeling soothed by Tom's careful ministrations, and against his better judgement, he felt his guard slowly relaxing.

"Why not just look into something that simply extends your life—something like the Philosopher's Stone?"

Tom snorted, but continued to play with Harry's hair, every once in a while allowing his fingernails to gently scrape the tender scalp so that he could enjoy the shivers that ran through the small, wiry frame.

"The Dumbledore of my time has never trusted me, as you well know, and has most likely ruined any chance I might have had to approach Flamel for an apprenticeship or even general correspondence. He's gone out of his way to make sure that I do not have the same opportunities that he himself had when he was a student."

Harry nodded his head in understanding, and if he leaned just a little bit into Tom's hypnotising hand in the process, well...

"So acquiring the knowledge through... acceptable means is out. In your time, Dumbledore managed to somehow remove the stone form Gringotts mere hours before Lord Voldemort broke in, so it's doubtful that the stone can be removed by force, either. As for attempting to duplicate Flamel's research, the man was ancient by the time he created the stone. It could have been a contributing factor in why he did so little with the gift. I'm not simple, Harry—even I know that death would be preferable to perpetual old-age. I'm looking for immortality frozen at the prime of my abilities, not at the waning of the tide."

"But if the horcrux doesn't actually change your soul, then will it really stop you aging? As far as I can tell, it just means that you can be resurrected after you've been killed."

Tom's hand slipped out of the silky strands and he traced the hairline with his finger. "I don't know," he said quietly, in a moment of uncharacteristic openness. Either Tom already had some sort of back-up solution in mind, or he was deliberately bringing Harry into his thought process—something he had never done in his own time, and even now was a rare enough occurrence to be instantly appreciated at the same time as it was suspect.

Harry reached up and took the delicate-looking, deceptively stong fingers in his own, giving the hand a reassuring squeeze. Looking into deep violet eyes, he responded with equal quiet seriousness, responded to the idea of the enigmatic boy willingly exposing a vulnerability, rather than the knowledge that Voldemort, too, had once wanted Harry to join him. "We'll figure something out, Tom."

The older boy held his gaze, but did not respond.

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**AN:** 21/10/11. Just did a little tweaking, but am not especially inspired on how to make this chapter better. I had planned to shift things around so that it no longer conflicted with the fanon Ch74, but other than make it another dream sequence, or vision, or fantasy, I think I'm stuck. Thing is, that there are aspects to this that I like well enough to want to hold onto the chapter, rather than just discard it completely. So for now, it's something of a stand-alone bit, separate to my slide-in-vignette scheme. Maybe at some point in the future I'll be able to incorporate the stuff from this chapter that I liked into other chapters, at which point, I'll just delete this one. If you have any ideas or opinions on this, please let me know!

10/10/11: If you haven't already posted a review (even a one-word "ditto") to the latest chapter of _Fate's Favourite_, please do—it's for her birthday! If nothing else, a simple silly emoticon or "howdy!" is bound to make any author smile. Happy Birthday Fictionist! Cheers and thanks for the inspiration! :-D

-Original AN extract: I'm not especially pleased with it—trying to find the balance between ambience and dialogue, but not quite there yet. Also, in a weird twist of... erm... "fate" [sorry!], The Fictionist was grappling with the same themes at the same time, and I think she posted Ch74 within minutes of this one, making this one too OOC for my scheme. As always, I like her version better. ;-)


	15. After Ch65

**AN:** After Ch65

Scenario: Voldemort discovered that he'd been tricked and subsequently mocked by Tom and Harry. To retaliate, he attacked the mental shields that Tom had built in Harry (which had been steadily crumbling away since the realisation of the fading paradox between Tom & Voldemort). Lots of blood, screaming and cuddling ensued, with Harry eventually occluding successfully for the first time, before passing out. He wakes up in the Hospital Wing, where Tom enacts his vengeance for the cuddling with a string of kinky insinuations which cause Hermione to blush, Ron to be uncomfortable, Harry to be confused, and Tom to look smugly satisfied.

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Tom was nothing if not patient, but surely even the legendary saints would be tried by the recurring circumstances in which he increasingly found himself. He'd always been a tactile person. When he desired something, his instinct was to grab it with both hands, and to hold close the trophy of his triumph. It was the way of success, after all—to not sit idly by but to caress and mould destiny to his design, to craft situations and circumstances to meet his every need, to be one of the lucky generals.

It had been enough—for over a year now, it had been enough to touch him—to grasp and place him wherever Tom required him to be. But since his trip to the future, the feel of Harry's arms in his grip were no longer enough to satisfy these urges for contact which were so much stronger with the green-eyed boy than with anyone else. Harry's messy silky inky hair, his sport-roughened palms, his barely-stubbled cheeks, the transparent shells of his ears, his large-knuckled blunt-tipped fingers—more and more and more, Tom just couldn't wouldn't resist touching these irresistible pieces of the boy who called him "friend", not "lord".

And it had been enough to caress him, under guise, under the cloak of Harry's confusion—tracing these symbols with Tom's own sensitive fingertips. But now the... ache... had migrated, and once again he was yearning and unsatisfied. This time though, the wanting centred at his lips like the anticipatory, imagined savouring of a lavish meal or fine wine soon to be consumed. His tongue rolled the scent of Harry in his mouth—shampoo and sweat and deodorant and soap and treacle and all of the other things that made Harry smell like Harry. He tasted it, he craved it.

He wanted to explore it. Wanted to see if that scent held captive in his teeth matched the explosion of flavours when his lips would finally brush against golden skin. He wanted his mouth everywhere his hands had already mapped and claimed.

But he knew that for now, it was that one step too far. Replacing questing fingers with hungry lips and teeth and tongue would throw their carefully choreographed dance out of step. Salazar though, he was tempted. How many more times would Harry faint in his arms before Tom's body decided that his mind's plans clearly needed rethinking?

It had come close, today. For the first time, he was forced to be grateful for Harry's paranoid Gryffindor groupies gawking awkwardly over them. It kept him grounded as he buried his face in Harry's hair, breathing deeply, imprinting, memorising. It kept him aware as he brushed his lips against Harry's ear, whispering harshly, teeth and tongue carefully, resentfully hidden. It kept him resolved even as he smelled Harry's blood, watched it embed in his fingernails just as it had that night so long ago when he touched the other boy's yielding lips for the first time.

There was no doubt that Harry had grown more comfortable, welcoming even, with his touch. Unlike Tom, the other boy was very contained—he never initiated contact with anyone, never moved to explore the texture of any new object he encountered. The only evidence of any sensuality was the look in his eyes as the wind rushed past his face when flying. It probably felt safe for Harry because unlike things and people, he'd never been hurt by simple air, though Tom was certain that if the muggles had figured out a way to, Harry would have grown to fear that sting just like all the others.

So for Harry to now lean into his touch when he thought Tom wouldn't notice, was a huge accomplishment, and one far too tenuous to risk. It was inevitable that at some point in his life, Tom would teach—all masters must at some point take an apprentice, after all. He had already taught many things to Harry—shared secrets of magic that he would never have considered bestowing upon mere followers. Of all of the lessons he could pass on though, it was the lesson of touch which he was determined to instil in the other boy.

Harry was a lucky general in the middle of an immediate conflict, but that was it. Tom wanted Harry to use his hands at all times—to grab and grasp and sculpt. He needed Harry to revel in sensation, to seek out and claim. Harry deserved to believe down to his deepest consciousness that he was entitled to question and take pleasure in his environment.

Only then could Tom loosen the reins on this thirst, on his longing which had started in his palms, and moved to fingers, lips, and would no doubt inevitably run its course throughout the pathways of his body. For now, he would take these moments as they came, vigilant, and play mentor until he could join the student in a shared quest for understanding.

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**AN:** Well, there it is—I've finally caught up to my first chapter which started as a challenge from The Fictionist.

The reference to "lucky generals" goes something like this...

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_When Napoleon was at the height of his empire, someone asked him, "How do you always win?"_

_He responded, "I pick only the lucky generals to run my battles."_

_"How do you know which generals are lucky?"_

_"They are the ones who have learned how to make their own luck."_


	16. After Ch66

**AN:** After Ch66.

_**Important-** this is a repost of what _was_ the first chapter of _Fighting Fate_. If you're looking for the newest chapter, it's now chapter 15, and the one I posted before that (yesterday, 10/10/11) is now chapter 12. Sorry to be confusing, but at least it's all in chronological order, now._

Scenario: Harry has followed Tom to the Little Hangelton graveyard as a favour/ Christmas present. Bookends Tom going with Harry to Godric's Hollow on Halloween.

Extract below in **bold**.

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**Tom was studying him, trying to assess what had him more stressed out than normal, before he looked around the graveyard, as if to look for clues.**

_**Penny in the air.**_

**Harry could feel the smallest confusion, then see the recognition, the comprehension of what was troubling him, the shock. **

**Tom's gaze snapped back to him, demanding.**

_**Penny drops.**_

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Harry stood there frozen, bright green eyes locked to Tom's dark enigmatic stare. There was a brief tugging sensation, almost like the feeling of legilimency.

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_Seeing that Harry was incapable of moving himself, Tom strode towards him with slow purposeful steps, and then reached out and firmly grabbed Harry's jaw, just as he had so many times before._

_Harry could see a growing fury blossom in Tom over his own continued silence. Over another omission in Harry's personal history. Over his weakness in this one moment where perhaps Tom had... not trusted... but at least... deduced a certain predictability that Harry would be strong for him—that his often-mocked "nobility" would inspire him to return the favour Tom had paid on Halloween._

_And then suddenly, before he could continue that line of thought, Tom's eyes were unbearably close, playing headache-inducing havoc with his glasses. And for a moment that was the only thing he could process—he couldn't even begin to acknowledge what else was happening as Tom's hand had darted lightning-quick from clutching his jaw to grabbing painfully at the hair on the nape of his neck._

_Tom's blurry eyes and the ache as his hair was surely being torn, ripped out by the roots, and... and... he wasn't breathing through his mouth anymore, not like he had been. Before Tom came over, he had been gasping in panicked heavy breaths, but now he was panting through his nose, trying to, because his mouth... he couldn't breathe through his mouth because the bruising pressure and..._

_Ow! Tom bit him—hard—on his lip, and suddenly it didn't matter if his mind was frozen by the graveyard, by whatever was happening right now that had shut down his cognitive ability, because Harry understood pain, especially when it was Tom who was dishing it out. He understood about retaliating, and so he pressed back, his mouth to Tom's, bruising and biting, and he was pulling Tom's hair, and what he understood in that moment was that this type of fighting wasn't about keeping someone else away, safely out of arm's reach from your personal space, but trying to drag them to you, into you, to somehow forcefully tear two bodies into one, and that this fight, this feral contest, was about who got to crawl into whom first._

_They were grappling frantically at each other, both demanding, both taking, and then everything went white hot and with a gasp, they were once again two separate people, gulping down air, staring, Harry with wide eyes, and Tom with eyes carefully shuttered._

_"Well, that answers that, I suppose," Tom drawled neutrally._

_Harry began to shake. It was like Tom and the graveyard and whatever the fuck had just happened were far away from him—a pinprick of light at the end of a long tunnel. His voice, too, when he answered Tom, seemed to come from a great distance, completely detached from himself._

_"What does it answer?" A small part that was still capable of thinking briefly wondered if this was what it was like for Tom all the time, but quickly brushed that thought aside._

_"Those people who said that the reason you were now physically 16 and had never had a girlfriend, never shown an interest in any girl, was because too much of your attention was taken by Voldemort." Tom tilted his head in that way of his. "They were partially correct."_

_Harry snorted, in spite of the numbness and the detachment. "You mean partially, in that Voldemort is partially you."_

_Tom's only response was a slight upward curve to his hard sculpted lips. It was a fleeting expression replaced quickly when he appeared to take in Harry's state of shock. Gently, with that studied cautiousness, Tom took Harry's clenched fist and carefully opened, unravelled his trembling fingers, as if preparing for a delicate dissection. And that was what Harry felt like—embalmed in formaldehyde, or pinned to card—helpless to the precise tweezers and scalpel of Tom's attention, incapable of preventing Tom from opening him wide and seeing every gruesome thing inside of him, and then tearing out whatever he wanted to examine more closely, casually discarding whatever didn't meet his approval._

_Harry tried to gain control of the ventriloquist's dummy his body had become. "Did you get what you came for?"_

_He forced himself to look away from the still-shaking hand that Tom was methodically exploring, to look away from Tom's focused expression and instead faced, for the first time since they arrived, the tombstone on which was carved, "Tom Riddle"._

_Tom gave him an inscrutable look, but did not release Harry's hand._

_"That remains to be seen."_

_A shift so sudden, so subtle, that Tom might have been a muggle slight-of-hand magician instead of a young dark lord, and the portkey was now in their entwined hands. With a nonchalance that Harry knew was completely natural and unpractised, Tom drew out his wand with his free hand and whispered, _"Portus."

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Harry and Tom blinked their eyes, suddenly aware of being surrounded by crooked tombstones. How much time had passed since Tom realised that this was _the_ graveyard? Had any time passed at all?

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**AN:** This was the original offering for Fighting Fate, written as a one-shot for The Fictionist's challenge to create a slash alternative to Chapter 67, which at that point had not been published. I enjoyed writing this so much, that I decided to go back through the whole story and see if I could sneak little moments in here and there. To make it especially tricky, I decided to not take the Simpson's route, but to make sure that each one of my chapters didn't actually contradict the fanon ones which followed.

Now that I've caught up to this point though, that meant that serious alterations were required to keep with my rules.

**"I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?" **by Zhuangzi

What I had in mind was that Tom accidentally performed reverse legilimency on Harry and they ended up sharing Tom's split-second fantasy. Then again, it's sort of from Harry's POV, so perhaps Tom had nothing to do with it, and it's simply the intense stress of the situation which has temporarily unlocked a part of Harry's mind that he was doggedly ignoring. Who is the dreamer, and who is the dreamed? Not sure if it works, but I can always fix it later if it doesn't. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Thanks!


	17. After Ch69 and 70

**AN:** After Ch69 & Ch70

Scenario: Graveyard-coffee-dinner-wine-drunk-return-news-dead!Arthur-nagini-Slytherin-guilt-awareness-Toms!bed

Excerpts from both chapters below in **bold**.

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Ch69

**Harry didn't think, lunging forward in attack, lips drawn back in an almost feral manner. They were tumbling to the Common Floor, fighting and flailing and cursing and…he was pinned down to the ground, Tom straddling him with an unreadable expression, eyes glinting.**

**"Physically and emotionally compromised, as well as drunk…not a good combination, darling," Tom remarked. **

**...He realised that by Tom's actions Tom wasn't entirely sober himself.**

**This was not going to be good.**

**...****Harry blinked.**

**He blamed the alcohol and the numb denial in his veins for what happened next.**

**...**

Ch 70

**...He wrapped his arms tighter, leaning to Harry's ear to whisper in an indulgence that only the intoxicated could manage.**

"Haven't you figured out by now that I'm never letting you go?" **he hissed. Harry went still in his arms, completely frozen, before he turned boneless, accepting it.**

**Harry sighed, playing absently with the fingers that kept him trapped. Tom's eyes widened slightly at the sensation. Normally it was him initiating physical contact, though he was rather less tentative than the Gryffindor.**

**...Absently, his fingers trailed across the forearm in question, his magic flickering in response to the gentle thrum of power and ownership beneath his fingers.**

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In his dream, he was holding Hermione as she cried. He couldn't remember why she was crying, but he knew that he wanted to cry too. He looked over her shoulder as he patted her back and watched as a giant snake slithered around the tombstone against which Cedric was tied, his eyes wide and blind and staring. Harry looked back at Hermione and realised that he was holding Cho as she cried.

Suddenly, she started hitting him, furious in her tears and recriminations. "You should have saved him, Harry! Why did you let him die? It's your fault! He'd be alive if it weren't for you!"

Harry ducked, protecting his head from the increasingly vicious punches. After several more accusations punctuated by blows, he took a chance and looked up, only to find himself staring into Ginny's livid and accusing brown eyes. "Why didn't you save him? You could have, and you didn't! You've betrayed us all! I can't believe you betrayed us for _him_," she spat through her sobs and flailing fists.

The sound of dripping water distracted him, and he looked up at the Salazar's shadowed scuplture in the Chamber which loomed over Ginny who stood slightly to the side, her face twisted in a sneer of disgust. Tom lay pale and motionless on the ground and her laugh of menacing triumph fell down upon them in perfect harmony with the dripping gloom. He knew what he had to do.

Throwing himself to the ground, Harry straddled Tom's hips, carding his fingers through the perfect black locks. Leaning down, his lips hovered over Tom's. This was how the story was supposed to go, right? He knew it was a fairytale—he'd seen it before. There was a monster and a magical animal companion and a legendary sword and he rescued the pale and waiting damsel, right? And they lived happily ever after, right?

How did he wake her up, again? Didn't it always involve a kiss?

But wait... this was Tom, not a damsel, and Ginny was leering at them, gloating, her hair a fiery halo of vengeance. He had to get this right—to stop Ginny and the basilisk and save the white and frozen boy. Just as his lips began to brush over Tom's own, violet eyes were suddenly peering up at him sharply.

"Got there at last, have you Hero?"

And now Tom was straddling his hips, and they were in the Common Room, one of Tom's hands keeping Harry's arms pinned to the stone floor, the other tugging demandingly at his hair.

**He blamed the alcohol and the numb denial in his veins for what happened next.**

It burst out of him, "_Please, Tom,"_ he hissed needily, breathily in Parseltongue, the wine and desperation a more potent combination than veritaserum used with compulsion charms.

The older boy smirked down at him, knowingly, obviously gratified by his own prescience. _"You only ever had to ask, darling." _

The hand that was tangled in his hair slowly retreated as Tom calculatingly dragged it down, allowing the full weight of its alabaster lines to tug over Harry's cheek, briefly catching his lips before continuing its sinuous path down his neck... and chest... and finally coming to rest at his abdomen. Tom quickly moved his hand under Harry's shirt, smoothly tracing circles on his skin with delicate, tapered fingers—an artist's hand. Soon, it abandoned the circles for following, playing with the barely-defined trail of hair leading to the waistband of his trousers.

Hungry violet eyes locked onto expectant green, and not remembering that he was supposed to remain in control of himself, no longer capable of reading whatever language was used in writing his mental lists on why it wasn't, couldn't be this way, Harry bucked his hips, reaching for the older boy's body, for the new point at which they now connected.

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...

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As always, Tom suddenly found himself fully alert. He'd never been one for gradually waking up—he was either asleep, or he was awake. The wolf-pack life of orphanage-living will do that to a person, and later, his time in Slytherin had merely demanded that he refine and develop the skill. From the smell of dead ash in the air, Tom could tell that there was an hour or two left before the wintertime torchlight wake-up call. The room was drenched in that stillness that only occurred after the last of the fires had fully run their course and before the elves lit the fires for the new day.

It wasn't difficult to determine what had awoken him at such a god-awful hour, particularly after a late night out and the drunken revelations that ensued. Two things were responsible for his current level of awareness: one reason was thrumming in his veins—a mentally-induced chemical reaction from the echo along his link with Harry; the other reason was a completely different type of "link" from Harry, which was currently pressing into his thigh.

First, there was that shared waking dream, that moment in the graveyard. He still wasn't sure from whom it had originated, but he would place all of his hoarded galleons on Harry having no idea that Tom had witnessed the same vision of crushing mouths and white-hot heat. That had been enough in itself to spark his current situation. But it was what happened afterwards that was truly at fault right now. Having Harry finally initiate casual physical contact with him and experiencing what it felt like to have his own hand held and fingers played with; having straddled the boy and used his hands against Harry's mouth and arms and hair, holding him and pressing his face against that same unruly mop; all in an evening where Harry had gone with him—as a present, no less (because he acctually asked what Tom wanted)—to the place of the boy's worst nightmares, who never said anything about it or objected, and then as good as admitted that it was because Harry cared about Tom; when Tom asked him to dine, Harry accepted, as he accepted Tom ordering for him, and the wine, and most importantly of all...

...Harry had anticipated that he would have a most amusing reaction once he woke up in the same bed as Tom... well, it was a foregone conclusion that Tom would wait for the other boy to pass out, and then gather him close, the act of enfolding and exploring, like a spider encasing its victim in silk before tasting, like the wings of a veela enclosing a chosen mate—holding that body and entwining their legs and just breathing him in—all of him. It was a win-win situation—Tom got to feed his own growing hunger (which would hopefully grant him a bit more control over his urges), and at the same time he got to embarrass Harry without worrying about pushing the other boy too far too fast.

It had been a good idea... until now. This was the second time he had been awoken by feelings of intense arousal coming from Harry through the link. This was the second time he had woken beside him in bed, soaked in the other boy's heat. This was the first time both had happened together.

Tom carefully shifted his hips away from Harry's. His own tangible arousal fascinated and exasperated him—it happened so rarely, and was undeniably a nuisance when it did occur. He suspected that the other Slytherins simply assumed that he and Harry, being generally superior wizards, were also more adept at concealing the average teenaged embarrassments and urges. Tom knew though that while he and Harry were indeed the same in this regard, it was in the fact that neither of them generally had anything... visible... to hide.

But now... yes, the ache was definitely migrating once again—palms to questing fingers, fingers to greedy mouth, and now this. It would be so easy to shift in the opposite direction, to bring their "links" into contact. The very thought made his mouth feel parched, brought on a thirst he felt down to his toes. But then Harry would wake from his ever so sweet dream. The boy was emotionally exhausted from the graveyard, from the blood-traitor, and no doubt from Tom himself. It was that balance again—to push, but not so far that Harry shattered.

The temptation was unsettling in its overwhelming insistency. Regrettably, this was not the first time Tom had found it necessary to exercise self-denial in order to facilitate the larger future goal, nor, no doubt, would it be the last. He resented that he couldn't trust his body even in an act so simple as to move Harry's hair away from his face so that he could admire the expression during what was obviously a passionate experience, albeit in the smaller boy's mind alone. Cautiously, Tom readjusted their bodies...

...and tried not to wonder if he, too, had a breaking point.


	18. The Talk

**AN:** This is a random scene set after Harry returns post-Christmas from Grimmauld Place. There's no slash, but the topic is thoroughly (and in a couple of places, somewhat graphically) discussed. I've written this as a birthday pressie for The Fictionist, without whom I would never have written anything like these past 17 chapters, or at least, not for a long time yet.

In the reviews of Fate's Favourite, there are a lot of debates on what defines sexual orientation and on whether the intimacy of Harry & Tom's relationship is realistic for a platonic male friendship. This chapter is in response to those themes. As I said, some of it is a bit... specific. As such, I've marked off the more graphic section if you'd like to skip it. Look for the "~~~whoa!~~~" mark, skip until you see it again, and then resume.

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He had to admit defeat. This just wasn't working—the problem wasn't going away, it wasn't resolving itself, it wasn't even starting to make some form of sense. He hated this, but Salazar, he needed help—he just couldn't sort this out on his own and everything was getting more and more confusing, convoluted, and yes... somewhat terrifying.

Harry needed to talk to someone who wouldn't mock him, reject him, hold it against him, tease him, tell other people, judge him, coddle or worry over him, and whom he won't feel embarrassed talking to. That eliminated all Slytherins past and present, all Weasleys, all adults, all girls. Seamus would take the mick and Dean was practically a stranger. Besides, being raised in the muggle world, who knew what kind of preconceptions he had on certain... topics? Same went for Seamus, too, considering that his Dad was a muggle. If either of them were like Vernon... well. Definitely not an avenue he wanted to pursue any time soon.

That left Neville. Because of the Prophet, Fudge, Tom, and that scene with the Dursleys and Dumbledore, no one in the school would even let him approach, let alone stand around long enough to engage in a highly personal and potentially damning conversation. Really, when it came down to it, everyone except for maybe the twins and Hermione were potential enemies. None of them—not the Creeveys, not his teammates, not his dormmates—not one of them had stood up for him against Ginny or McLaggen. Unfortunately, he reflected, this meant that Neville wasn't exactly a sure thing, either. Even the ghosts and portraits were no use for anything but feeding Dumbledore's loyal spy network. Harry felt a pang and a moment of deep longing for Imogen and Roger, his first friends in back in the '40s.

He hoped though, that it had been Neville's fear of conflict and just general bottom-rung status which had kept him quiet so far. He'd never been close to Neville, but still had always felt a certain level of comradeship with the shy boy. They were both relatively introverted; both lived without their parents and with a certain healthy fear of their guardians; both victims of the first war and favourite targets of Snape's insults; both were capable of admiring Hermione's kindness and intelligence in spite of the awkward ways she often chose to display them. It was nothing like the powerful and convincing similarities he shared with Tom, but it was enough that if he and Tom were two sides of the same coin, then Neville perhaps could have been a brother, or at least a first cousin. It was really only down to his and Neville's previous inability to initiate conversations that had kept them from becoming... maybe not as close of friends as he was with Hermione and Ron—you needed a lot of shared life-threatening experiences for something like that—but at least good friends.

Classes were done for the day. Harry had made his excuses and dipped into an alcove where he quickly donned his invisibility cloak. As always, Neville lagged behind the rest of the group. He waited until everyone else was too far ahead to notice the other boy's absence, and sent a body-bind and silencer at him in quick succession. Before Neville could grow too panicked though, Harry quickly sidled up beside him and whispered reassuringly to the frozen boy.

"It's me, Harry. I just wanted to talk. I'm going to end the spells now." He cast a finite and swiftly continued his whispered instructions before Neville could react. "I've got my cloak on. If you're willing to talk with me, go through to that empty classroom on the right. I'll be behind you. If you don't want to talk, just walk past the door, and I promise I'll leave you alone and never bother you again."

Neville looked around wildly at first, and then more cautiously glanced up and down the hallway. Nervously, he approached the door, took one more look around, and entered. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. At least the first step in his mission had been accomplished. He just wished he could say that convincing Neville to hear him out had been the hard part. Taking a cautious look around himself, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him, only to turn back and find a shaking wand pointed at his head.

"R-reveal yourself."

Harry quickly took the cloak off and bunched it into his bag. Leaving his wand in his pocket, he held his hands up in surrender.

"Relax, Neville. It really is just me."

"Why'd you cast P-petrificus at me, then? Harry wouldn't have done that."

The boy in question sheepishly ruffled his hair, feeling somewhat chagrined. Trying to lighten the mood a bit, he responded, "No, but Hermione would have!" The laughter in his eyes quickly died in the face of Neville's unrelenting seriousness.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I just... well, to be honest, I didn't know if I could even approach you without you trying to hex me. I'm not oblivious on where I stand with the Gryffindors at the moment—kind of hard to miss, you know."

Neville slowly began to lower his wand. Harry took that as a good sign and continued with his appeal. This had to work—he had run out of options.

"I know Hermione and the twins still talk to me, but, well... I don't know where I stand with you. Are we on speaking terms?"

This seemed to surprise the other boy enough that he dropped his wand altogether. As he bent down to pick it up, he asked in confusion, "When have we ever talked, Harry?"

He shrugged. There really wasn't an answer to this, except, "Well, do you want to talk?"

Neville who shrugged in reply. "Sure, I guess."

Harry gave a sigh of relief—another hurdle down. He gestured to the old broken desks lumped together in a corner and took a seat. Neville followed his example and they sat there looking awkwardly at each other, both appearing at a loss as to what they should do next. After what seemed like hours, Neville finally broke.

"Well, Harry... erm... yeah. I... erm... hm. Yup, we should definitely do this more often."

Harry's jaw dropped at Neville actually making a joke. And at the sly, slightly embarrassed but unapologetic look on the other boy's face, Harry lost it and completely cracked up, Neville joining in the laughter half-a-second later.

After a moment they calmed down and he flashed Neville a thankful grin. "So how have things been with you?"

Unfortunately, all of the earlier light in Neville's face was doused immediately, like a bucket of water thrown onto a single burning candle. He looked off into an invisible distance, his body tensed in readiness for fight-or-flight.

"You mean... erm... besides Mr. Weasley getting killed, and ... and besides my parents' torturers on the loose, and besides spending the entire Christmas break with my Gran going on and on about how I'll never manage any OWLS and what a disappointment I am?" By the end, his normally placid, pale face was red and scrunched up in anger.

By contrast, Harry had paled significantly. How could he have forgotten about the Lestranges? Didn't Sirius just bring it up again, like, a week ago? Suddenly he was reminded of that visit with Zevi in the Hospital Wing a couple of months back. Harry really was a shite friend. No wonder he was having such a hard time finding a confidant. He run his hand through his messy hair, trying to figure out the best way to undo what his stupid attempt at small talk had just created. See—this was why he hated it. Like politics, there was just no good to be had, but much potential for evil.

"Erm... yeah," he began awkwardly, "I guess it's been pretty craptastic all around. Bad luck about your Gran, though. I'm sure you'll do fine. You're the best in our year at Herbology, right? And you never seem to have too much trouble in Charms or Care, and you did great with that Boggart in Third Year." He felt it was safest to stay away from anything even vaguely Voldemort-related for as long as he could. Luckily, the diversion seemed to work.

Neville shrugged and looked back at Harry. "It's... it's okay. I'm not really too upset about it, I just... you know. I get enough of that thing here. I don't want it at home, too." He shrugged again, and Harry was at a loss for what to say. Luckily, it was apparently Neville's turn to bravely wade into the murky waters of "chat".

"So... erm... well, anything... you know, going on with you?"

Harry sighed. "Same old, same old. They hate me, they love me, they hate me more. Ron and Ginny blame me for their dad because I'm... friends... with Tom, and the rest of the family try to keep me from blaming myself for not... well, not knowing it was happening. For not stopping it." He sighed again. He got it—he really did, just like he got the whole Cedric-wasn't-his-fault-either thing, but it still ached. He figured it probably always would.

Neville was shaking his head. "Erm... sucks to be us?" Harry chuckled and Neville continued. "Seriously though, I don't know how you do it. I... I see... _Lestrange_... in your group, and..." he took a deep breath before plowing on, "and it's all I can do to not rip his head off. I... I just keep thinking, 'If he dies, then it won't happen—they won't be born', and maybe, maybe Bellatrix and Crouch will leave them alone... you know.. my.. my..."

"Your parents," Harry interjected. Seeing the hesitant look on Neville's face, he added, "Last year. I accidentally saw a pensieve memory of their trial, so yeah... I know the details that weren't printed in the paper. I'm... I'm really sorry, Neville. I didn't mean to intrude."

The other boy looked gobsmacked. "But, but, no-one else seems to know!"

Now it was Harry's turn to look confused. "Why would they? It's not like I'd tell anyone. It's your private business, after all."

Neville's shocked expression became mingled with gratitude. "Erm... thanks, Harry. I thought you told everything to your friends, but... well, I'm glad that you didn't tell them this."

"You know... I consider you one of my friends, even if we don't, you know..." Harry gestured vaguely between them, "erm... talk much. You're still my friend."

"Erm... thanks, Harry. Er..." the other boy appeared to be as embarrassed as Harry felt. First Tom, now this. He really was turning into a bloody girl.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Harry tried to get things back on track. "Erm... you were saying something about how can I stand something?" He didn't really want to go there, but considering the whole point of why he was seeking Neville out, Harry figured he might as well get this over with and out of the way.

Neville looked down at his shoes, clearly uncomfortable talking about this now that all of his earlier unresolved ire had faded away. "Well, you know. I mean, aside from the fact that you and... _Lestrange_..." Harry briefly wondered if it were possible for Neville to say the name without choking, stumbling, or spitting on it, "...well, erm, you two obviously hate each other and you haven't done anything to him yet. But, I mean, aside from that... well, my... my parents..." he trailed off with a mumbled whisper.

"Yes...?"

He gave Harry a guarded, guilty look. "Whatever else... my parents... are... are still alive."

Ah... there it was. Yes, how could Harry possibly stand to be anywhere near the future murderer of his parents? He gave Neville a considering look, and seeing that Harry wasn't angry with his tactlessness, the other boy straightened up a bit and arranged himself as if readying for a story. Little did he know...

"I'll answer your question, Neville, but first... well, I just wanted you to know that last year, when I found out about your parents... well, I felt like of the two of us... you, well honestly, I think you got the shorter end of the stick, mate."

Neville tilted his head as if thinking it over, but quickly held his hands out in a helpless gesture. "Green grass... or erm, I guess the opposite. Brown grass?" was all he had to say in response, with a shrug. Harry nodded in understanding, and then took a deep breath and continued.

"Well, there's the whole changing-the-past-could-possibly-erase-the-present-and-blow-up-the-universe thing. That's why when I first found myself stuck there, in the past, I just tried to keep my head down, at first. I didn't want to implode existence with a paradox or anything."

The other boy nodded. "Yeah... McGonagall gave us all a lecture after you, erm, moved to the dungeons. Some people were really upset and er, talking about attacking the new group of Slytherins, you know, blaming them for... erm, everything, I guess. She, she told us about, er, all the dangers, and everything. That's why... why I... erm, left him alone. I did the research... I know he's their, you know, _father_." He shuddered, obviously repulsed by the idea of any Lestrange procreating. Harry thought of Cygnus and couldn't really help but agree. "But... yeah. I know he's off-limits, too. But that doesn't explain, well, why you... you know... want to hang around with them. With _him_."

Harry sighed. "I know that... I know that we can't actually kill someone from the past. Besides, I don't want to be like them—like the Corpse Crunchers. I don't want to kill anyone or cause anymore death. There's been enough of that. But... well, I haven't quite accepted that we can't change people _inside_, you know? Like, as long as the person's still alive, that should prevent the whole butterfly affect, right? I just... you should have seen him Neville... back in the past, when I finally told him his future. He was... well, _gutted_, to be honest."

"Wha...?"

"That monster out there—that red-eyed snake-nosed murdering freak that's killed off half of the UK's wizarding population, that's. not. Tom. And no matter what Hermione or Dumbledore says, it's not just me being in denial, either. I know that he used to be Tom, a long, long time ago, but _Tom_ doesn't want to be _him_. Tom's about politics and research and really, _really_ long-term plans... _not _terrorism."

Neville looked at him for a long moment, and then, "You... you're trying to save him, aren't you?" he asked quietly, no judgement in his voice.

Harry nodded. There was nothing more to say on that point, really. He'd either succeed—possibly destroying the universe in the process—or he'd fail, and Tom would become Voldemort's first victim. Aside from the personal cost of losing Tom, he couldn't bear the idea of failure making his life into an even bigger Star Wars spoof than it already was.

"And what does... Tom... think about... you know, your plan? You trying to save him?"

Harry sighed and looked out the window. "He... he's trying to save _me_."

Neville gave a low whistle and shook his head, most likely in wonder over the clusterfuck that was Harry's life. "Wow. I mean... wow. Okay. So... erm... what exactly is the, you know, "relationship" between you two? Are the rumours right after all? I mean... you don't have to answer or anything if it's too personal, I just..." he trailed off uncomfortably.

Harry ran his hand through his hair again and leaned back in the chair, wishing they were in the Room of Requirement so that he could lay down in front of a fire, or something. He fought the urge to cover his eyes with his forearm. It was now or never.

"I don't know," he whispered uncertainly. His words seemed to echo around the room, and he braved a glance at Neville, who surprisingly didn't look shocked, worried or disgusted. He had definitely picked the right person for this discussion, then. Relief flooded him as he realised that he'd passed the biggest hurdle, and now it was just a matter of getting what he came for... sense. Seeing Neville waiting patiently, he continued.

"I... well... erm," Harry scratched his head and sat back up deciding to take a slightly different tact.

"What do you think about sex?"

Neville flushed like ripe tomato. "S-s-sex?" he finally managed to meep out.

"Yeah. You know... sex. Like, how often do you think about it?"

He was clearly bewildered by the non sequitur and mortified to be discussing this topic, but in true Neville fashion, he straightened up and ploughed ahead in spite of his cringing discomfort.

**"Erm... well, what do you mean "think" about sex? What's there to think about?"

"But I thought you guys thought about it all the time!"

"We do?"

"Well, it seemed that way in the dorm. I mean, it's mostly Seamus and Ron doing the talking, but well... you and Dean seemed to always nod your heads in agreement."

"Erm... I don't really _think_ about it," Neville disagreed. "I just... er... _want_ it, you know. Has nothing to do with thinking."

"How can you want it without thinking about it?"

"Well there's not really, er, _time_ to think about it, is there? I mean, there'd be no time to think of anything else! The body just wants it. As far as I can tell, erm "thinking" would only really, you know, be... necessary... when, like, _planning_ is involved. You know... to try to actually_ get_ sex."

"So…do you want sex _now_?"

"Yes." He didn't even pause to think. "Of course. I mean... not, like, right now with you, but..."

"All the time?" Harry's voice was part disbelief, part resignation.

"Yes."

"Do you think you'd still want it even after you've just had sex?"

"Erm... possibly. Honestly, the, er, urge would probably be even stronger."

"How much sex do you think would be enough to, you know, satisfy the urges?"

"I mean, okay Harry, I'm like, 15, you know, and it's not like I'm going to ever be in any Witch Weekly spread except for... well, maybe the joke pages. But, like, if none of that were an issue? Erm... well, I just don't think there's... you know, such a thing as "too much sex", you know? It's never enough. I mean... well, probably every guy is physically incapable of getting enough... enough sex. Like, even if I was the luckiest guy in the world, and was... and was getting laid, like, erm, every day—like lots of times every day... I'd still... well, I'd still want more."

Harry was starting to feel a little queasy, but carried on. "Even if you were feeling, you know, sick? Like a cold or a headache or something?"

"Sex would probably make me feel loads better."

"So would having sex make you, you know, happy? Or happier?"

Neville had lost some of his embarrassment in the quasi-familiar sort-of dorm-speak, but it came back now, along with his earlier confusion.

"Erm... well, I love sex... I mean, I love, well... you know... c_oming,"_ he whispered helplessly. With blushing determination, Neville doggedly continued, "but I don't really know what sex would have to do with making me, you know, happy. It's not like it's going to... to cure my parents, or, or make me a better wizard, or anything."

"Hang on, so… sex… does it… _mean_ anything?"

"Erm... Harry... I don't know what definition of sex you're using, but... well, _meaning_? Sorry, but, erm, you're sort of sounding like a girl, with, you know... wrapping bits into it that I don't think have anything at _all_ to do with sex. Erm... I don't think it's not supposed to mean anything, really. It's only supposed to feel good."

"And it doesn't matter _who_ the sex is with?"

"Of course it does. I mean, if you're lucky, she'll be at least a little, erm, good looking, you know? Hopefully. And if she's like... adventurous, like willing to try things and doesn't just, er, sit there and do all the work, right? I mean, not like I know first-hand, or anything..."

"Yeah, all right," Harry said hastily. "But…what about _feelings_?"

"Feelings," Neville replied blankly.

"Well don't, erm, feelings make sex _better_?"

"How can sex be _better_? From everything I've heard, sex is everything, you know. Good sex is good. Better sex is better. Fantastic sex is, erm... yeah." Neville sighed wistfully before continuing. "Feelings though... like... _emotions_? Nothing to do with sex, erm... as far as I can tell, anyway. If it did, the purebloods would have died out generations ago. I mean, if I were to... to fall in love with someone, I mean, I would, you know, certainly hope sex would be involved."

"And it doesn't matter who you get it from?"

"I already said it _does_."

"I mean…. if you were, like, involved with someone, would you, you know, rather have sex with them than with anyone else?"

"Honestly?"

Harry mutely nodded his head.

"I think it would probably depend on how good the sex is. I mean if it's really good, then yeah, I'd want to be with them, like, a lot, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't want to still have sex with other people, especially if it was even better than with my, you know, partner. The best would be with, like, my partner and another girl if she wanted to... you know... _join in_. Yeah..." Neville trailed off in a haze of glazed eyes and uncomfortable shifting.

"Riiiiiight... I had _no idea_ most guys were so…_whorish_."

**This seemed to snap Neville out of his pleasant fantasy as his brows flew up. "You mean... wait... you don't?"

Harry could only shake his head 'no' as he stared at his feet in frustration and worry.

"Not even guys?" Neville was obviously incredulous at just how freaky a sort-of 15 year old Harry was.

He shook his head again. "Not really. But... well lately..."

"So are you gay?"

Harry threw down his hands in frustration, shot up from his chair, and started to pace.

"I don't know."

"Wow."

"Yeah. I mean, I just don't think like how you described... or _not _think, I guess, would be more appropriate. I mean, I just don't walk around with urges like that for everyone—guy or girl. Maybe I'm asexual..."

"But you said that lately...?"

Harry gusted out a breath as he dropped back into the chair. "Yeah. I don't know, it's just... eurgh! Like... not to be gross or anything but, well, no matter what, it's like..." Harry sighed and tried to collect his thoughts. "It's the mechanics, Neville. The very thought of sticking it in _there_, or, or putting my mouth on _that_... eeeeuuuuurrrrgggh... just completely disgusts me. I don't care who it is—and there's one thing I agree with you on at least. No amount of, of _feelings_ could change _that_."

Neville shuddered in sympathy. "Well... erm... you know, right, that it's not just... er, those two things that guys do, right?"

Harry looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

Neville rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like a father having to give "the talk" for the first time.

**_~~~whoa!~~~_**

"Erm... well, er, the majority of men, erm, "_engaging_ _in activities".._. erm, whether gay or, or bi or whatever... er, don't have anal sex. Most have oral, you know? And, like, I'm not saying I want to, or anything, but... er... if I did, well you know, there's like, spells and stuff. For like, making sure everything's... er... _clean."_

Harry looked vaguely green, but decided in for a knut... "Er... noted. Thanks. So... er... what are the... erm, other things that...er, guys do?" Shite, he couldn't believe that he had thought that picking the right person to have this talk with would save him from embarrassment.

Neville didn't look too much better off, but Salazar, he was a star for hanging in there through this.

"Er, well... there's, erm, inter...intercrural sex..."

"Huh?"

"Well, erm, it's... Merlin, Harry." He took a deep breath and bravely charged on like a soldier to the front. "Okay. It's lubing up and sticking your dick between a guy's thighs, alright Harry?"

"Whoa." They were both bright red. Harry raised a shaky hand to his hair. "Okay. Shite. I have a really bad feeling I'm going to need to know this stuff. What else is there, Nev?"

The other boy gulped, but continued on, his shyness and hesitancy falling away in the serious new air of combat that the conversation had taken on. "There's frottage. That's two bodies rubbing together until they orgasm."

Harry couldn't quite stop the gasp that escaped. Holy mother of Salazar! "What else, Neville?

"Well, pretty much everything else involves hands, and, you know, tongues. Different ways of wanking and places to touch and..." he trailed off at the way Harry's eyes had begun to glitter. After a pause Neville continued, for which Harry was grateful as, at the moment, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to speak again.

"And Harry, there's... there's spells, too, and potions and... erm... toys. There's all sorts of things that two guys can get up to together in, erm, "outercourse"."

_**~~~whoa!~~~**_

Harry slowly came out of the dazed fog into which he'd fallen at the onslaught of images which had suddenly flooded his mind at Neville's matter-of-fact, devastating information.

"But... but Neville... erm... so... if, if I wanted to do any of that stuff, not with all guys but, but with one guy... would that mean I'm gay?"

Neville's voice was gentle and not condemning. "I don't know, Harry. Er... sexual orientation is pretty much up to each person, you know? For some, it's just about sex, and for some, it's just about feelings, and for some it has to be about both. No matter what, you're, er, pretty young, you know? So there's no rule or anything that says you have to figure it out right now."

"Right. Erm... one more thing, if that's okay?" At Neville's nod, Harry continued. "Okay, well, like, do you think there are gay men out there who don't, you know, do any of that stuff? Like don't, er, get each other off?"

Harry wished Neville looked more surprised at his question.

"Er, probably. All sorts of people choose celibacy for all sorts of reasons, or just fall into it, you know, like old married couples. I'm sure there's plenty of gay couples who, you know, just like, hold hands and kiss. Maybe they even snog, and, I don't know, hold each other and stuff. Erm, be physically affectionate... you know... touching more than people do who aren't couples, right?"

Harry had paled dramatically, but before he could say anything, Neville continued, "But then again, except for the snogging, there are, like, er, platonic friends who do that too. You see it a lot on the Continent, you know—men kissing each other hello and walking arm-in-arm and stuff like that, so, erm, culture plays a part too, I guess."

Harry wondered how hard it would be to convince himself, Tom, and everyone else that they were, in fact, Italian.

"So... erm... how can I tell?"

"Well... this guy..." Harry would be eternally grateful to Neville for pretending that he didn't know who they were talking about. "Do you think he's, er... you know, cute, or hot, or something?"

He was ready to dismiss the question out of hand. He'd never gotten all fluttery-flustered over a guy's looks like he did over Cho, but then again, if he were just purely straight, wouldn't he be more like Neville and the other guys, at least feeling... urges... for lots of different girls? No, he needed to really give this serious thought, especially after the reaction he had to the vision of Tom's hands _there_. So did he think Tom was cute? hot?

"Er... I suppose the first time I saw him, I thought he was handsome, but I'm not sure that means anything. I mean, I thought my godfather was handsome too, but it's not like I want to snog him or hold hands or anything. Eurgh."

Neville had paled at the mention of Harry's godfather, but soldiered on. "Well, erm... if we're trying to, you know, figure out if you fancy him, or just guys, sometimes the best way is to, you know, look at how you're, er, competing for, like, his attention or something."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember Fleur? How guys would all start trying to impress her and outdo each other? Well, that's just what guys do, or, well, want to do, when they fancy someone. Like Hagrid was talking about with the hippogriffs. Even some plants do it—the males will try to be the fanciest and compete with the other males to get the female so they can, erm, pollinate."

"So you're asking me if I've ever competed to try to pollinate another guy?" Harry asked, desperate to find some humour in this mortifying, yet sadly edifying conversation.

Neville quirked a smile and nodded. Great, another thing to have to seriously think about that he never, ever wanted to give a moment's thought to. It was hard to miss how affected he was by Tom ignoring him, how he always had to dominate the conversation over Tom's followers when they were around.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe."

"I had just wondered, you know, about Ron and Hermione, actually. Honestly, well, I er, always thought it was strange that Hermione sticks with you through everything while Ron, well, frankly, treats you like total shite—sorry!—and then after a half-arsed apology, suddenly he's the thing you'll miss most? I just couldn't figure out how you value, well, crap company over loyalty."

"What! Are you saying that I fancy Ron?" Harry felt like he was going to be sick.

"Not necessarily... I'm just pointing out that you always give the preference to the boy, not the girl. I mean, come on—it's not like we're, erm, 9 years old anymore."

"Pfft. That's just Hermione. You have no idea how boring it was when it was just the two of us."

"Look, all I'm saying is that you live in Slytherin, and yet I've never once seen you talk to one of those girls. And then there's the fact that Riddle only brought guys with him, and I'm pretty sure the only girl in Gryffindor you've ever had an actual conversation with is Hermione and..."

"Hey! I've talked to Ginny"

"No. You've been around while she's talked to Hermione or Ron or someone else. She told me last year that you never once actually exchanged more than a couple of words, and have never spoken with just the two of you aside from when you rescued her in the Chamber, and even then you didn't say much."

Harry was surprised and chagrined. Mostly chagrined. He hadn't realised that he'd shut her out so much. She was just always there and he kind of assumed that she was just a part of whatever conversation was going on. He wondered if this hadn't been a contributing factor in her freak-out reaction over Tom and from whatever post-Horcrux trauma she'd sustained.

Back on track, there were other girls. Surely he talked to some of them...

"There's three girls on the team! I talk to them!"

"You talk to Fred and George. You talked maybe a little less to Oliver, and then way less again to Angelina, Alicia, and Katie. Seriously, beyond passing the ball during practice exercises, you're usually off doing your own thing practicing seeker moves. I know. I've watched."

"Pervy stalker." Neville had apparently grown more confidence throughout this conversation than he had in the last 4 ½ years, as evidenced by the fact that he just gave Harry a pointed look.

"Last year Angelina told me that she was glad I was champion."

"And you said what in return?"

Harry thought about it and then sighed in defeat. "Not much". He wondered if Imogen had felt frozen-out, too.

"You may not realise this Harry, but you don't actually talk much in general. It's not just with me—it's with everyone. Unless you're ranting about something or fighting with someone or baiting your Slytherins, you usually just keep quiet and watch and only respond if you have to. My point though, is that you pretty much only respond to guys."

"How do you know?"

"I watch, too. I watch and listen. You wouldn't believe what people are willing to say around me."

Harry smirked knowingly. "You know, you're not so bad, Nev."

"Neither are you, _"Hair"..._ for a Slytherin."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Aaaanyway... maybe I'm just a man's man. You know, the bachelor type that just fraternises with guys and only relates to women... on a sexual level. _Rowr."_ He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Neville wasn't fooled. "Yeah, great, erm, except the fact that you've admitted that you don't really relate to anyone on a sexual level... except one _guy_."

"Hey! There's Cho!"

"Pfft."

"Yeah, okay, fine. But I'm not even sure about that one guy. Aren't there any rules about this sort of thing? I mean, how did _you_ know all that stuff about... well... _stuff_?"

"Not every book I read is about Herbology, you know. I mean, I can, er, lend you some, but... well, when it comes to deciding, er, preference, they all say pretty much the same thing."

"Let me guess—no rules, no one's the same, have to decide for yourself—right?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"I'm screwed."

"Only if you want to be," replied Neville with a grin.

Harry conjured a rubber ball and threw it at him. "Thanks, Nev. Thanks alot."

"Well... er, have I helped?"

Harry thought about it. It sounded like whatever he was going though wasn't a retarded puberty, which brought it back to sodding girly feelings. Meanwhile, it was certainly an eye-opener (and a relief!) to learn that all that sort of thing didn't have to revolve around "pick up the soap". On the other hand though, aside from a moderately pervy fascination with Tom's hands (okay, and maybe his mouth, too)—which could totally be written off as just the closest he could come to being a normal 15 year old—he wasn't really any closer to determining what category they fell into. And worse, it didn't look like he'd be able to find the answers anywhere. Apparently, pretty much anything could mean anything you wanted it to. So if he decided that he just didn't want that sort of thing, that's all there was to it.

On the other hand though, if he decided he did want that sort of thing, that would be all there was to it—he wouldn't have to change anything he was... well, _they_ were doing. It was all about how he chose to define it. Crap. The worst part was that he suspected there was this whole other layer—the feelings bit, mostly—that play a big part in things. How was he supposed to know what he wanted? Why did he even have to choose? And how in Salazar's name was he supposed to know the difference between...

"he wanted to spend every waking moment with Tom (and yeah, touching was good), because he was the best friend Harry would ever have, and oh yeah, they were soul-connected"

and...

"he wanted to spend every waking moment with Tom (and yeah, touching was good), because he was the only boyfriend Harry would ever have, and oh yeah, they were _soul_-connected"?

Crap, and yet more crap.

"Erm... Harry?"

"Huh? Oh... sorry, Nev. Guess I spaced out there a moment."

"So was I any help?"

"Well... you know a hell of a lot more about sweet juicy manlove than I ever expected..."

Neville just stood there, waiting patiently.

"Oh, alright. Yeah. It was pretty good, actually. Situation's still bolloxed, but at least I know how screwed it is, so... yeah—bonus!"

"Anything else I can do? Not to, er, rush you, or anything, but I'm pretty sure supper's started."

Harry thought for a moment. Just as they left the door, he turned to Neville.

"Don't suppose you can teach me Italian?"

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**AN:** Well, if you stuck through to the end—well done you! At just over 6K, this is my longest one yet.

I've just added a few more bits and bobs, but still have some copyediting to do. For now though, I just want to mention that the point I was trying to get at is that I think The Fictionist is completely legitimate in claiming a platonic relationship for her two main characters. Basically, if they don't see themselves as gay or bi or "open" or whatever, if they don't want to define their relationship within a sexual or romantic context, then they're not and it isn't. That's all there is to it. That said, I do think that if they did decide that they weren't necessarily platonic (or that it didn't matter one way or another), that they wouldn't have to change a thing or do anything differently than what they're already doing. Basically, that the difference between platonic and non-platonic in this instance is how the players choose to define themselves. Does that make sense?

Alright, enough waffling. Here are the credits:

1) Between the two pairs of "**"s is a paraphrasing and downright plagiarising of a conversation between Hermione and Harry in _Chapter 8: "Interlude"_ of _"__**Wolf **__- Part II - Back To School"_ by colibri. It was the best description I've ever read of generic teenaged male thinking in regards to sex, so I wantonly stole it. _Wolf_ is a fairly dark HP/DM story with lots of side slash pairings where super-powered Harry spends his 6th Year as a junked-up adolescent prostitute. In my take of this particular scene, Neville is Harry's voice, and Harry is Hermione's. That tickled me, just a bit.

2) I tried to gradually morph Neville's character throughout the conversation, but I don't know if it worked. Although OotP was Neville's butterfly moment, this still is admittedly OOC. I stole the characterisation from "_**Harry Potter and the Marriage Contracts"**_ by Clell65619. It's a HP/DG post-Voldie fic which I absolutely adore for having my favouritest ever depiction of Neville. Again, it's OOC, but being a fan of what happens "off camera", I think that bold, funny, sarcastic Neville is just as possible and likely as Independent!Harry.

3) Conjuring rubber balls to chuck at people is from nonjon's _**"You Did What!"**_ which is an Indie Harry superpower story where he pretty much dates everyone, even himself. Third in the trilogy and definitely worth the read.

Okay, that's all for this update. After this, I'm back to my usual gig. Next stop, Grimmauld Place! If you liked, hated, have ideas, have requests, have a spare moment of time, please review! Also, a big thanks to my small handful of regular reviewers—you keep me going! And finally, one last "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" to The Fictionist :-)


	19. During Ch73

**AN:** During ch73. The Fictionist had requested some more background stuff on characters she didn't have time to spend on. So I've done a little Neville, and now here's a bit of Sirius, Remus, Hermione & Twins. Sorry, no Tom/Harry interaction in this chapter, but I hope it's enjoyable just the same.

Synopsis: The chapter begins with Harry crashing from reading the background on Horcruxes. It ends with Tom's sudden appearance at Grimmauld Place, presumably brought there to get through to Harry who has locked himself away and started to refuse meals. My chapter here is about how Tom got to into Headquarters.

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* * *

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Tom moved with languid grace through The Room of Hidden Things. It was one of the dwindling number of secrets he had managed to maintain safe from Harry's prying. The act of strolling through the aisles of the cathedral-like space as if he were taking a turn through a fine garden put him in mind of the anticipation he had once naively felt for the holiday excursions the orphanage rarely provided. _'This is what it should have been like,' _he thought to himself, _'space and mystery and peace, not the miserable, stormy bleakness of a barren seaside, all gift-wrapped in charming desolation and tied up in a jaunty bow of bullying.' _It had taken months to heal from the first trip (when he was intentionally pushed over one of the shorter cliffs by Billy Stubbs), and taken years to hone his gifts so that he could protect himself, so that the next time they did it would be the last time.

When, on their third trip to the crumbling East Anglia village, he managed to grab his would-be assailants and apparate all three of them into the cave, Tom had been filled with triumph, made only sweeter by their terrified, snivelling faces. Foolishly, he had not counted on his attackers raising an alarm when they returned to the group. He had managed just in time to enforce their silence through pain and the threat of more pain, but the seeds of suspicion—already planted by the Billy Stubbs fan club—were quickly watered with their cowering tears, and Mrs. Cole was always too drunk to take notice of the subtle march of abuse over the years.

Looking back now, he realised that this incident had been the turning point in all things. It was the first time his power had truly saved him, it was the first time he realised that the next step in defense was to prevent future attacks through offense and fear, and it was the cementing of the black mark against his name to a person of authority; the mark which was, in clichéd inevitability transferred to Dumbledore, which in turn set the foundation for everything that followed, even into Harry's time.

Staring up at the towering piles around him, Tom was reminded of that first fall. He had been hoping that perhaps learning to ride a broom would give him the sense of security that his damaged psyche required; however, though he gained sufficient proficiency in the skill (as in all his endeavours), it was not in his nature to trust his continued well-being to the potential incompetency of broom-makers, not to mention the pure practicality issues: brooms could not be shrunk, and the best broom skill in the world would be absolutely useless in the face of not actually having a broom to hand. No, the only true way to protect himself would be to discover a method for magically flying without relying on objects such as brooms or carpets or enchanted muggle vehicles. Learning to fly was one of his great dreams, and it was this which brought him now to the Room.

He had discovered the Room towards the end of his Third Year, and had spent most of fourth year slowly rummaging through the contents, gathering those items which could be potentially useful (books and magical artifacts), and those which presented immediate use (money and clothing, no doubt stolen by the thieves of previous generations, then hidden and forgotten about). Since the appearance of Harry in his time, it had been very difficult to get into the Room, as Harry increasingly relied on the Room for its primary function as the RoR. This holiday would be his first time in the Room in nearly a year. Tom wanted to check that his personal storage area was still intact, to see if his older self had managed to add anything during his Sixth and Seventh Years, to see if he could recognise any new items that had been added in the previous 50 years, and to of course continue the long and tedious process of sifting through centuries of youthful wizarding shame.

The wealth of illicit information to be had far surpassed the Restricted Section, and no doubt contained rare tomes not obtainable in Knockturn Alley, or anywhere else in the magical world outside of hidden private collections within the oldest of the pureblood ancestral homes, or perhaps the Department of Mysteries. This Room held his greatest chance for uncovering the secret of human self-propelled flight—either through long-lost spells, or through failed research notes that he could improve upon. Surely he wasn't the only one to desire this symbol of absolute and total freedom, and even poor theories could prove useful.

Tom sighed as he continued his slowly paced march through the seemingly endless space. If only this marvellous opportunity of leisurely exploration were not marred by the constant throbbing ache of angst feeding to him through the link with Harry. What had been merely an irritating itch of grief and guilt and anger and confusion had suddenly and abruptly morphed into a nauseating stew of fear and self-loathing just a few days ago. That these...emotions... had been steadily increasing in intensity only enhanced Tom's own feelings of disgust and discomfort. He had told Harry to write to him, and yet there was nothing. Apparently his directive was deserving of the same respect as his instructions to drop the silencing wards, that evidently being none at all in Harry's stubbornly independent low-self-worth view. Tom had promised to fetch the other boy personally if there were no word by Christmas, but perhaps he would need to seek him out sooner than anticipated.

Swirling dust motes sparkled like the fairies positioned throughout the Great Hall, dancing in the light which streaked through impossibly-stacked columns and aisles. The sheer volume of stashed guilt and illicit behaviour made him giddy. Tom absolutely adored the friction of society-imposed values conflicting with self-motivated desires. It was delicious, delightful... a sensuous pleasure for a restless mind keen on entertainment. As his eidetic memory catalogued the changes 50 years had wrought—that table was new, that stack over there was slightly higher—he slowly became aware of an odd... pull... coming from the vague direction of his personal collection. The familiarity of the sensation disquieted him, and abandoning his passive meanderings, Tom strode quickly and purposefully down the centre aisle, and then to the left.

His breath caught in his throat. Ravenclaw's legendary diadem... and one of his future self's Horcruxes. There could be no doubt. For a moment, Tom was swept up in admiration for Gramps, for the greatness he could achieve even without his memories of Harry. To recover such a priceless artefact lost to antiquity... he wondered if he had used it, and what gifts, what secrets it had bestowed. Of course, it could not be used in such a way, now. But that line of thought led to the next marvel—what a princely housing for a shard of his soul! No ancient reliquary could be more divine. The diary seemed so very juvenile, so tawdry by comparison.

Slowly, his environment began to filter back to him, and the passing admiration flickered, and then died. Why on earth had he hidden a horcrux _here_? It was just sitting there, by a large cupboard, without a single protective charm, free for any of the house elves or rule-breaking students to wander in and take it so that it could be presented with a proud flourish to the headmaster, or to the Head of Ravenclaw, or the press, or the ministry, or even to keep for their own private use, or Salazar forbid, to sell on. Between the throbbing magic radiating out of it and the history of the object itself, it was pure dumb luck that his most priceless reliquary was still here. And if there had been any lingering doubt or hope over his future counterpart's sanity, intelligence, or rationality, here was irrefutable proof that they were all indeed a lost cause. Of course he had heard of hiding things in plain sight, but this was ridiculous. Were Dumbledore to walk into this room, he would feel the presence, perhaps not as strongly as Tom had, but surely enough to investigate. Thank Salazar for the inherent laziness of most people and the unwavering lack of curiosity bred into house elves. That, and the rather hurried nature of most deposits to the room, had no doubt been the horcrux's salvation.

But what to do now? He couldn't touch the thing—he could barely be in the same aisle as it—but it would be madness to leave it here. Tom didn't trust the shifting nature of the Room, nor the castle wards to allow him to install the necessary protections and then maintain them without degradation or setting off various alarms. No, it would have to come with him somehow. Exiting the aisle, he began to quickly look around the other objects close to hand. After half an hour of sorting, he had compiled a small pile of empty boxes—some wood, some metal, some stone, and each slightly larger than the next one. He pulled a battered, dusty armchair, executed successive tergeos and scourgifys, and then sat down to individually charm each box with a different layer of protection.

Once the preparatory work was completed, it was simply a matter of using his wand to open the cabinet and levitate the diadem into the smallest box, seal it, and then place that box in the next largest, and so on. By the time the horcrux was completely nested within all of the boxes, its pull had settled into a very faint hum, barely discernable and sufficiently muffled for Tom to pick up and hold, were it not a bit too large and awkward to carry by hand. Tom still didn't much like the idea of having the horcrux in his vicinity, but acknowledged that one of the many possible plans for how his current situation would be resolved would necessitate Harry eventually possessing all of the Horcruxes. He was half-tempted to give the diadem to Harry now, but knew that even with the revelations of their last night together, their bonds were still too tenuous for Tom to trust that the Gryffindor wouldn't seek to immediately destroy the artefact. He would need to begin testing the waters on this topic very soon, though. Yet one more reason to go to Harry now, rather than wait for the other boy to contact him or just show up at Christmas.

Levitating the now-disillusioned box behind him, an equally invisible Tom made his way confidently back to the 7th floor hallway. He would place it in the Chamber for now until a more suitable hiding place could be found. Whilst he was uncomfortable with how many people now knew about the Chamber's existence and where the entrance was located, at least he could rely on the fact that it was still only accessible to him and Harry, and Harry had shown a dogged determination to avoid returning there at all possible costs. It wasn't ideal, but it was certainly a better option than leaving it unprotected in a room open to every person in the castle. Salazar, Gramps was a moron.

After it was somewhat secure, he'd send missives to Granger and Black, and then return to the Common Room. He hoped they'd managed to clean up the mess. While forcing all of the Slytherins who had remained for the holiday to face a boggart without a wand had been entertaining (and sometimes rather informative), the chaos that had ensued with furniture tumbling and breaking as students struggled to run, and the building stench of urine from the younger years had eventually caused his enjoyment to stale. He hoped the session toughened them up some though—they were woefully soft and weak. If they didn't learn some resiliency they'd never make it through the next session he had planned, and he couldn't have that now, could he?

.

...

.

Fred and George had just come down the stairs to the sitting room where Sirius, Remus, and Hermione were all engaged in a serious discussion as the rest of the house's inhabitants were seeking comfort in the kitchen. They looked up hopefully, and then slumped as Fred shook his head no, his face tight with worry. Before anything could be said though, a sharp tap brought everyone's attention to the window, where a brown and rather unremarkable owl waited on a bare and knotted branch for someone to allow it entrance. George quickly undid the latch and slid the sash up, and in moments, identical-looking magically sealed scrolls had been delivered to Hermione and Sirius. They looked at each other in confusion, and then to the other three in the room.

George closed the window and turned back to the group. "That was a Hogwarts owl."

Hermione looked at him, surprised. "How do you know?"

"Last year," Fred began

"With Bagman," George continued

"squelching on that bet,"

"we sent a lot of owls,"

"got to know some of them personally,"

"and now,"

"with the business"

"to set up"

"we're using them"

"even more."

"_STOP!"_ Hermione yelled, in frazzled frustration. "If you're going to do the twin-speak thing, at least have the courtesy to stand next to each other and not on opposite sides of the room. I get motion sickness, you know," she huffed.

With identical devilish grins they stalked up to her and in perfect synchronisation sat on either side of the girl on the sofa. Leaning into her, each giving a stage whisper in one ear, they took turns saying,

"Is... this... better... Hermione... dear... darling... angel... of... doom?"

She responded with a growl and a quick thump on each of their heads with her as-yet unopened scroll.

"Are you two going to open them?" Remus asked trying to get things back n track, but with an indulgent grin at the carrying-on.

Sirius looked at him and shrugged before turning back to Hermione. "Do you know anyone at Hogwarts who knows both of us? Dumbledore wouldn't have bothered with owls."

Hermione bit her lip in worry and sighed at the loss of the brief flash of playful levity in the room that was so rare these days. "Honestly Sirius, I don't know anyone at all who stayed at Hogwarts. With You-Know-Who openly attacking Hogsmeade and then personally coming to Hogwarts, pretty much all of the parents want their children home, and I'll be surprised if all of them come back in the New Year. As far as I could tell, it was pretty... much... only..." she trailed off and looked at the scroll in her hand with eyes widened in surprise and a tiny bit of fear.

"What? Who do you think it is?" Sirius' face had fallen back into the morose and worried lines that had marked him since Harry's self-imposed exile.

She shoved the scroll at Fred. "Here, cast the detection spells. I know nothing dangerous should have been able to get through the wards, but you can never be too careful with him."

"With who? Hermione, talk to me, please!" Remus reached out and placed a calming hand on his friends arm.

She took a deep breath. "Tell me, Sirius—is there any chance that you know Tom Riddle?"

George hissed and Remus' hand visibly tightened on Sirius' sleeve. Fred froze for a minute in his spell-casting, then completed the charm showing the letter to be safe and handed it back to Hermione. Sirius, meanwhile, paled, and then, strangely, flushed.

Looking unaccountably embarrassed, Sirius shifted in his seat, obviously trying to ignore the grip on his arm and the fierce looks from the twins. "I... erm... I may... well, that is to say... there's a good chance that... well... IthinkImayowehimalifedebt."

Four voices exclaimed in outraged unison, _"What?"_

Sirius sighed and looked down at the floor, and then apparently thought better of it and looked over at his one remaining friend. "It was that failed mission, Moony—remember?"

"I remember you coming back from Hogwarts fairly shaken up."

"It was him—Voldemort. I had been captured and taken to him, and then suddenly this kid that looks like he could be Harry's brother or cousin or something just barges in as if he owns the place and starts hissing up a storm. Then he takes this piece of paper out and shakes it at Voldemort like it was the snake-faced bastard's homework and he got a bad mark, and then the kid sets it on fire! There's more hissing and then Red-eyes makes some sort of hand gesture and next thing I know, the Death Eater that had me pinned is tossing my wand to the kid, and then pushing me towards him, and then the kid grabs me and apparates me to the Hogwarts gates. Once I got my bearings, I snatched my wand back, and then he bound me and floated me behind him all the way to the Hospital Wing! Poppy heard the noise, and that's when I found out that this was Tom Riddle. _The_ Tom Riddle! But before I could say anything, he just dropped the bind, dumped me on a bed, and told me to stay put and quiet until Harry came to see me."

Sirius looked away from Remus' concerned eyes and noticed the three gobsmacked faces on the settee. Hermione, whose own eyes had remained rounded since her realisation, quickly interjected into the silence.

"And then what?" she asked in breathless anticipation.

"And... that was it. I didn't see Riddle again. Poppy alerted Dumbledore, who of course brought his pet Death Eater with him, but with the kid's orders I kept my gob shut. Poppy told them who brought me in and the old goat and Snivellus scarpered. About ten or fifteen minutes later, Harry showed up, had a quick chat and then toddled off. Dumbledore and Snape came back, tried their little mind tricks, and eventually accepted that no matter what the particulars, I really was as clueless on the big picture as they were. Once Poppy finished clucking, I was released and came back here. End of story."

"I can't believe,"

"you owe Snake-breath,"

"a life debt."

"That's fucked up, mate."

"_Language!"_ Hermione hissed angrily at her personal (and unwanted) syncopated stereo system.

"Well... if there _is_ a life debt, it isn't to old snake-face in his current incarnation. I've been meaning to ask you all anyway... what exactly is Tom Riddle like? I mean, Harry doesn't seem to be too concerned, and if anyone has the right to a blood feud, it's him."

Hermione looked at her ginger bookends, both of whom were wearing uncharacteristic frowns, and sighed realising that she was best placed to answer, anyway.

"He cares about Harry." She paused as the twins snorted and Remus sucked in a deep breath. Turning to George, "No, he really does. Granted, I'm pretty sure Harry's the only person he cares about or has ever cared about..."

Fred scoffed while George looked thoughtful. "Alternate timelines are crap, Hermione, and you know it..." jerking his head at Sirius, "...personally."

She nodded. "I think... what with the weird encounters between the three of them—you know, Harry, Tom, and You-Know-Who... I think when Tom goes back something must happen to his memory." This time, Hermione ignored Remus' low growl and the sounds of synchronised derision on either side of her, and just ploughed on. "It's... I mean, it's hard to miss that he's changing Harry... but I'm not convinced that it's a bad good thing. No wait! I..." she paused and looked apologetically at Sirius and Remus before continuing, "he's never had someone in a strong position on his side. Sorry! But, well... before Tom, no one in a position of authority had ever stood up for him. I think Harry views most adults as either enemies or obstacles, but never someone who can take care of him or fight for him or make things right. Things have never been right for him, and he learned before Hogwarts that the only one who could fix things was himself, and ever since he started here..."

"Wait, you're saying that Harry sees Riddle..."

"...as a _parent_? Well that..."

"certainly puts all of those rumours"

"in an even creepier light."

Hermione sighed and looked over at Remus and Sirius who were both white-faced and stricken, the latter with tears running down his face. She shook her head.

"No. If anything, he probably sees these two as parents, if anyone. But Harry's never had parents, so he doesn't know that parents try to protect you and do everything they can to make the bad stuff go away. It would just never occur to him to trust them to save him. In fact, Harry probably thinks it's his job to save and protect them."

Sirius was openly crying now, shaking as an almost equally-pained Remus tried to comfort him. The three on the sofa shared a look and decided to continue on, giving the older two in the room some privacy by ignoring them.

Fred took the reins. "How does Riddle fit into this, then?"

Hermione cast a nervous look at the Mauraders and tiredly rubbed her eyes before shrugging. "Tom can make the bad stuff go away. Just look at him rescuing Sirius. And how many times has he rescued Harry this term?"

"How many times has he been the cause of Harry needing rescuing?" George rebutted.

"I don't think very many were directly caused by Tom. More like people's reactions to him," she gave him a pointed look as she thought about Harry's exile from Gryffindor.

Fred picked up where his brother had left off. "But what about you and Ronniekins? You've been through loads of stuff together, and I have it on very good authority that he never would have made it if it hadn't been for you two." He paused in thought for a moment, and then qualified, "Well, at least without you. Far as I can tell, Ronnie's just along for the ride."

She shrugged. "He serves his uses. As for everything in the past... all of those... _adventures_... well, we may have helped Harry figure things out and kept him company, but no matter what, he always ended up having to do the real work on his own. Besides which, he's usually the one to make the really important realisations—to, you know, put the final clues together. And then something always seems to conspire to get us separated just when he'd most need help, and we never had the authority or power to just take care of things ourselves or get someone else to take care of things."

"Did you even try? Did you ever ask for help? Did you do anything to change Harry's opinion of adults?" Remus' voice was strangled and filled with bitterness and a hint of accusation, which had Hermione bristling between pity and righteous indignation.

"Of course we did! I did! Over and over I asked him to talk to people, or I just went on my own. In first year, Professor Dumbledore was gone, and Professor McGonagall brushed us off, and we were convinced Professor Snape was the one working for You-Know-Who! I had finally convinced Harry to seek help, and it was useless, just like Harry assumed it would be. And then in second year, he and Ron went to Professor Lockhart, who then admitted to being a fraud and tried to obliviate them!"

She had worked up a full head of steam now and turned the accusation back on the accuser. "And in third year, you _knew_ he was an animagus," she threw her hand towards Sirius, "you knew about the ways into the castle, you had the stupid map, and did _you_ tell anyone?" She turned to Sirius and almost caught herself at his grief-stricken face, but was too far gone to stop now. "Harry didn't speak to me for months because I took my concerns about his new anonymously-gifted broom to a person in authority—and it was all for nothing!"

Remus tried to interject. "Professor Dumbledore..."

"...forced Harry to compete in the tournament last year and then offered no help!" Hermione finished for him. "Even in first year, Harry was convinced that the Professor wanted him to have these adventures—jump through these hoops. And you know what? After that stunt he pulled with Harry's family, I'm starting to believe it."

The two older men startled, and Sirius, who had calmed slightly during Hermione's rant decided to speak up.

"Wait—what about Harry's family? Are you talking about the muggles?"

Hermione and the twins looked at each other, and the bushy-haired girl gave a sad shake of her head before looking down at her lap. After a moment of silent communication, George decided to start.

"It was towards the end of dinner..."

"everyone was there"

"yeah, everyone, and then suddenly"

"the doors to the Great Hall open and there's"

"Harry's muggle family"

"right in the middle of Hogwarts"

"and everyone saw..."

Fred shuddered and George reached behind Hermione to smack him on the back of the head. "C'mon, Forge, it's your turn."

"Quite right, Gred, but I was held momentarily speechless by the horror of horse, whale, and walrus in human forms disrupting the appetites of the poor students trying to replenish their energy levels after a hard day's work."

"Well said, Forge. They were indeed a nauseating site."

"_What?_ Muggles in Hogwarts? What happened? _How_ did it happen? Why?" Remus' shock appeared to have shaken loose his previous moroseness.

Hermione looked up from the hands clenched together on her lap, tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she answered quietly.

"They called him a freak. His uncle treated him like his most hated possession and his cousin said that he wasn't even family. It was horrible. Everyone saw and... and I knew things were bad. Harry never really talked about it, but Ron told me about the Christmas gifts and the bars on the window..."

"_What?"_ Sirius and Remus shrieked simultaneously in outrage, but instantly deflated at the twins' solemn nods.

"Had to bust him out the summer before his second year. Used the flying car to pull the bars off, then had to pick the locks on the bedroom door..."

"...which was no mean feat as the locks were on the _outside_..."

"there was a cat-flap and everything"

"kid must have the world's strongest bladder"

"or he pissed out the window"

"or he pissed out the window, but we had to break out his trunk, too"

"which was in a cupboard under the stairs"

"and all I'm saying is that the trunk"

"was on a cot"

"and there were kids' pictures propped on the shelves"

"drawn in crayons"

"one of them was of a flying motorcycle"

"and that door had external locks and a flap too."

"That's all we're saying."

"_What?_ Ron never told me that!" Hermione had lost the battle with her tears, which were now freely flowing.

"Didn't see it, did he?" George retorted, a dark look in his eyes.

Sirius was once again crying and Remus looked positively furious. "And you told no one? How could you let him return there?"

Fred shook his head. "We told our folks everything. Even gave them the bars, but they wouldn't believe us."

"Which was bang out of order."

"Just because we wind people up"

"every once in a while"

"doesn't mean we're liars"

"or that we'd joke about something like this."

Sirius shot up from his chair with an angry snarl and began pacing. "They probably couldn't face the idea that the Great Albus Dumbledore either was lazy and lacking in omniscience, or that he wilfully sacrificed a child." They all watched warily as he continued to pace and growl to himself. Remus finally turned back to Hermione.

"So what happened with the Dursleys and how... why..."

Hermione nodded wearily. There really weren't words sufficient enough. "Well, they were awful, and no one did anything. Not even me or Ron. I was too shocked, I think, even when they tried to grab him and force him to go home with them." She had to pause at more cries of outrage from the two men. "Like I started to say, I knew things weren't right, but I didn't realise how bad they were, or maybe it just didn't seem real until I saw them—I don't really know. But the thing is—Tom wasn't shocked at all. And the way he reacted... it was like he did know how bad things were... like..." she took a breath before continuing in a whisper, "like he knew that things were even worse than what they looked like..."

Sirius froze in his pacing, and then with a moan dropped back into his chair, with his face in his hands. Remus ran his own trembling hand over his eyes and pressed on with the conversation, no matter how difficult, "What did he do? Where was Professor Dumbledore in all of this?"

George decided to field this one. "That's just it. There was this whopping great walrus of a muggle"

"at least three times the size of Harry"

"which isn't hard"

"okay, four times the size of Harry"

"and the big lug was grabbing Harry's arm and threatening him"

"calling him all sorts of names"

"obviously loathing Harry and everyone in Hogwarts"

"and Hogwarts itself"

"That was his aunt, I think."

"Yeah, I heard stories about her from Lily." At the pointed look from the twins for interrupting their rhythm, Remus shrugged, and George continued on.

"So you've got this huge beast practically attacking a student"

"in full sight of everyone"

"and no one"

"not even a professor"

"tries to stop him"

"except for Riddle"

"and then Dumbledore stands up"

"and his eyes are twinkling like it's all fun and games"

"and says that Harry has to leave school"

"in the middle of term"

"in the middle of his OWLs year and go stay with the muggles"

"who obviously hate him and might actually do him harm."

Remus' jaw had dropped open. The three on the sofa watched the internal struggle between fear, obligation and gratitude, horror, shame, and timid determination . "What happened next?"

It was Hermione who answered, her face pinched, her voice quiet. "Tom was the only one who defended Harry—who tried to protect him. Professor Dumbledore tried to stun Tom to get him out of the way," Remus hissed at this as she continued, "but Tom blocked it, and then got Harry free of his uncle and put Harry behind him, shielding him."

Sirius looked up at this. "Tom Riddle tried to protect Harry? From Dumbledore?" The three on the settee nodded, and Fred answered.

"Well, from Dumbledore and his Uncle."

" The time-travelling snakes helped, too, surprisingly."

"And for a while, it was Riddle and Dumbledore arguing over Harry."

Hermione snorted and at their surprised looks said, "He called it a custody battle." The twins grinned while Sirius and Remus exchanged dark, contemplative looks. Fred continued.

"And then it was like they were arguing over Riddle."

"In the end, Dumbledore said that Harry had to choose a side,"

"and he made it pretty clear that choosing the Light"

"meant ditching his new friends"

"who just happened to be the only ones standing up for him"

"and temporarily dropping out of school"

"to go with the bloody muggles."

Remus' eyes were wide as he asked, breathless, "What did Harry do?"

George shrugged. "Basically told Dumbledore that he could stick the whole golden-boy-saviour-weapon-thing up is"

"_George!"_ Hermione reprimanded sharply as both Sirius and Remus sucked in sharp breaths.

George shrugged and Fred added, "Not like we blame him."

Hermione shook her head and turned to the two conflicted men. "Harry made it clear that he wasn't siding with the Dark or the Light, but just that he was done being a pawn. I don't really blame him either. But the fallout was nasty. Someone," again, she gave a pointed look to the twins, "decided to spread rumours about Harry's 'relationship' with Tom," Hermione quickly shook her head no at Sirius who seemed to be choking and spluttering on pure air, "and that he was going to be the next Dark Lord. It didn't take long before he was kicked out of Gryffindor and had to move in with the Slytherins."

"_What? _I wish that kid would write me, or at least use the mirrors." Sirius' shock had once again morphed into frustration and sadness.

"What mirrors?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Special two-way mirrors we used to use in detention and for pranks. They work sort of like talking on the floo and come in pairs. I gave Harry his dad's one just before you kids left for Hogwarts. I was going to wait until Christmas, but after Harry suddenly appeared in the middle of that Order meeting, and then pretended that he didn't know anything when clearly something had happened... well, I didn't want to wait. Not like it did me any good anyway," he finished grumpily.

Hermione got up from the sofa and walked to Sirius' chair where she kneeled in front of him. "It's not personal Sirius—I swear he doesn't mean to do these things—it's just like how I said: he doesn't want to risk your safety, and it would never occur to him that you feel the same way about him. Even if you told him, I'm not sure that he would really understand, or... or maybe believe it, you know, in here." She held her hand against her heart as she continued. "He was so worried about you last year. And I bet anything that whatever he's got himself worked up about right now, it has at least something to do with trying to protect us, or maybe guilt because he didn't protect us enough, or probably some combination of both."

Sirius gave a pained smile and patted the girl's shoulder in thanks. She nodded and returned to her spot between the boys. When she was once again seated, Remus bombarded her with the questions that were obviously troubling him.

"So what does the smartest witch of her age think about all of this? Have you given up on Professor Dumbledore? On the Light? On authority figures? Do you trust Tom Riddle?"

Hermione paused to sort out her response to the barrage, and then began rather primly. "Well firstly, I think it's important to note that Professor Dumbledore and the Light are not synonymous. I think someone can support the Light without supporting the Headmaster. It's the same with authority figures, though, well, I'm 16 now, and I suppose I'm at that age where I'm supposed to rebel against it." Sirius snorted and she remembered that he was her age when he ran away from home. "I still respect my teachers, and I guess I tend to assume the best of most people until they prove me otherwise."

She stopped to turn over her next thoughts a bit before giving them voice. It was a sensitive subject for a lot of students in her situation. "It's hard to say about my parents. It seems like every year I see less of them, and we grow further apart. Even with all of the prejudice against Muggleborns, I can't really see myself going back to that world. I don't even think I'll be taking the GCSEs this summer like I had originally planned."

At the blank looks surrounding her, she added tartly, "OWLs for Muggles. Honestly," she huffed, and then continued more thoughtfully. "So... maybe I'm not as tied to authority as I used to be, but I think I still probably respect it more than most kids my age, and I guess that still extends to Professor Dumbledore, at least a little bit. I really do believe that in spite of everything, he cares about Harry and that he means well and is really trying to help."

Sirius snorted again and interjected, "Road to Hell, Hermione. I've listened to you defend Snape, too."

She responded hotly, "Well, he's saved us loads of times, or at least tried to! If he really was on the other side, why didn't he just kill Harry and have done with it? Just because he's not a nice person doesn't mean he's evil." Sirius scoffed and after narrowing her eyes at him, Hermione continued. "Anyway, yes, I do believe that Professor Dumbledore has made a lot of mistakes, but I'm not so arrogant as to believe that I know more than, let alone as much as he does, or that I'm aware of all of the elements that make up the big picture."

Remus sighed. "I agree with you Hermione, and admire your objectivity, but you also have to acknowledge that there usually isn't much room for individual needs to be met within a big picture framework. Sacrifices inevitably happen."

The girl nodded, "Yes, but who am I to determine which has more validity—the greater good, or the needs of the one?"

Sirius rejoined the debate over the growling objections of the twins. "And who is Dumbledore to determine it, either? What gives him the right to define the greater good and who has to be sacrificed to achieve it?"

Hermione sank into herself, wilting under the glares pulsing at her from either side of the settee. "I don't know, Sirius, but I have to trust in him. No matter what he does, I'll still give everything I've got to support Harry and get him through, no matter what expectations there are for sacrifices made or taken. Just because I'm not going to declare Professor Dumbledore ultimately right or wrong, doesn't mean I'm not angry that Harry's been hurt—doesn't mean I won't do everything I can to keep him from getting hurt again!"

She sighed and sat a little straighter. "It's just that I have to believe that all of the suffering wasn't for nothing—that in the end it's worth it, even if it doesn't quite justify the means. We need a leader, and Professor Dumbledore's the only one at the moment who can do it. Maybe in a few years Harry would have been able to, but right now..."

George interrupted the silence that had fallen, and demanded with quiet gravity, "So you're willing to stand by the old man in spite of what he's done to Harry? In spite of... who's to say... Fred...?"

The other boy, usually the more outspoken of the two, just shook his head silently as he looked through the doorway towards the kitchen where the rest of his family kept solace together. George gathered himself and continued.

"Harry thinks that if anyone's to blame besides the Dark Bastard, its him... but he wasn't the one who ordered Dad to be somewhere in the Ministry in the middle of the night with no protection..."

"George..." Hermione couldn't decide if she wanted to rebuke or comfort, but didn't get a chance to either way as Fred immediately interjected.

"No, Hermione. It has to be said. People are risking their lives, and they don't even know what they're risking it for because Dumbledore likes his secrets and likes to think that he knows everything and doesn't need help with anything besides warm bodies. When was the last time Dad had to defend himself? Did he receive any training? If more people were like Harry and stood up to him—didn't just take his bullshite for granted, then maybe he'd be forced to give a little and let other people help with the thinking."

George nodded and added his own take. "We're of age, Hermione, and I know what you think of our pranks, but we've got loads of things like the extendable ears—things that could be used for spying or protecting people—things that could help the war effort, but they won't even let us go to meetings, let alone actually talk things through or help. Do we really need a leader who doesn't communicate and is willing to discard potential resources just because he didn't think of them homself? I'm starting to think we'd be better off with no leader at all."

Hermione looked shocked and torn at this startling piece of heresy coupled with painful logic. "But.. but..."

Remus gave a mirthless chuckle while Sirius slouched down in his chair despondently. "Well, I guess that answers the question of whether your view on Professor Dumbledore and authority figures in general had been tainted, but now I'm starting to worry that perhaps it's not tainted enough." He nodded respectfully to the twins while Hermione huffed. "It still doesn't answer what you think about Tom Riddle though. You've probably seen more than most. Can you trust him? _Do_ you trust him?"

Hermione sighed and looked out the window. "It was like Fred said. That day in the Great Hall, Tom basically blamed the existence of his future crazy self on Professor Dumbledore, and the Professor didn't really have an answer to it. And it made me wonder if Harry's right, you know..."

"Right about what?" Sirius asked tiredly, but didn't bother bringing his eyes down from the ceiling where he appeared to be pondering the mysteries of the universe.

"Erm... he thinks that Tom became You-Know-Who because no one gave him a chance. Harry thinks he can save Tom."

"Wha..." George was obviously gobsmacked, so Fred continued.

"Even after all that stuff with the time turner and the patronus and everything?"

Hermione nodded her head resignedly, just as George managed to get out a strangled "How?"

She sighed. "I sometimes think that he believes that he can... I don't know... warp reality through wishing hard enough, or something."

The twins nodded thoughtfully at each other and Fred said, "I wouldn't be surprised if he could."

"It's the basis of most accidental magic with little kids, after all," George continued.

"Wish magic."

Hermione stopped the verbal table-tennis before it could really get going. "Yes, but twisting the very nature of time?" she scoffed.

Sirius shrugged. "He did survive a killing curse."

Remus shared a frustrated glance with Hermione, like a secret bookworm handshake. "Alright, that clears up Harry's view of Tom a little bit, but what about your view, Hermione?"

She fidgeted with one of her bushy curls. After a moment she gave it a tug and sighed. "It's been hard. It was hard having him suddenly here and so changed and having no idea what was going on. To learn what had happened was even harder, especially knowing that he had kept it a secret from us. I was so used to thinking that I knew everything that went on with him." She sighed again at the revelations of his home life which demonstrated just how wrong she had been in that assumption, and over something much more important than his trip through time. "I was so used to being the oldest, and suddenly I realised that he was now older than me, and it was hard to deal with the idea that he had grown up a lot and I hadn't."

George reached over and put a comforting hand on her back and she turned to give a grateful smile before continuing. "And that was just the beginning. At first, I was just relieved to see him so happy—happier in himself and in life than I had ever seen him before, which was really something considering all of the bad things that were going on. But then it got hard again. After he moved to the dungeons, I rarely got to spend time with him except for when he was in the hospital. It was... well, I guess the most difficult part was that I felt like he didn't need me anymore, you know? I was the brains, but from everything I can see, Tom's way smarter than I am."

Sirius scoffed. "I sincerely doubt that."

She looked at him sharply. "Don't. Don't ever underestimate Tom. Whatever else you think about Harry's plan to wish a new reality into existence, he's definitely right that for the moment, at least, Tom is completely different from You-Know-Who. He's a genius, and honestly as far as I can tell, he really hates what he became, so Harry's not delusional for the motive, either."

Remus nodded, looking somewhat relieved, while Sirius looked slightly more worried. "Does that mean you trust him then?"

"Like I said, it's hard. I've spent a lot of my time feeling like Harry doesn't need me anymore, and trying to deal with the fact that Tom protects him and makes him happier than I ever could."

"Erm... something you need to tell us Granger? Or maybe Ron?" George asked with his eyebrows raised as he made a show of withdrawing the hand that had been rubbing her back."

She blushed bright red and shoved him hard off of the couch. "I didn't it mean it that way, you git! He's like a brother to me!"

Fred laughed as he helped George off the floor and turned back to Hermione. "And how would you know that's how you feel about him? How many brothers have you had? Honestly, Granger, if Gin-Gin tried to tackle me the way you do to Harry, I'd probably be a bit freaked out," he said with a wink and shudder if quick succession.

"That's because you're Ginny's big brothers. I'm sure it would be different if she had a little brother," she sniffed haughtily.

"Ah... so that's why you've been uncomfortable dealing with Harry now being the big brother," George chimed in. "I understand completely." And he gallantly placed his arm back around her shoulders which she immediately shrugged off with a huff.

Remus gave a polite cough while Sirius grinned. "So... Tom?"

With a final glare to the red devils, she continued. "Yes, before I was so rudely interrupted... so... yes, it's been hard to not only feel replaced, but to feel like the replacement was a significant upgrade. I... I don't really have many friends, and it took a while for Ron and I to find a sort of... peace with each other without Harry or Ginny acting as buffers."

"We tried"

"but you said"

"you preferred"

"a matte finish."

"_Anyway_... I couldn't see objectively anymore past my own... well, jealousy, I guess, and past the image that was being projected onto Harry and his new friends. Mostly, I just couldn't see past Tom. So I gave him an ultimatum, and he agreed, but then there was the attack on Hogsmeade, and well..."

Remus prodded gently, "Yes...?"

"I guess seeing him there in the hospital wing, hearing what had happened... I think everything just sort of fell into place for me. I realised that Harry's different, but that it's not a bad thing, and that, to answer your question," she ignored the "finally" muttered in stereo on either side of her, "I accepted that while I would never trust Tom in general or with myself, that there was no one else I could better trust with Harry."

Fred and George looked at each other and then George reached over and touched her arm.

"Are you sure about this Hermione?"

She nodded. "We both know that, strange Harry magic aside, Tom really is the one who hurt your sister. But I think for now, while he's here in this time, he's one of the safest people for Harry to be with, and I think he cares enough about Harry to not hurt anyone that Harry cares, and even to protect them—us—to a certain point." She tilted her head towards Sirius as a case in point. "Physically, I really believe that Harry is perfectly safe. The only thing I worry about is emotionally. We don't have any idea why or how Tom loses his memories... or if it happens before he returns to his own time."

Sirius sat up a little straighter. "Wait a minute... you sound almost like you're worried about Harry getting his heart broken, or something. And what was all that with Harry being happy and protected?" He had begun to pale and looked on the verge of downright twitchiness.

Hermione shrugged and turned to the twins for help, but George just raised his eyebrows, and Fred made a sweeping motion with his hand indicating that she should carry on. Looking at Remus, her last resort, she was dismayed to see him shrug in helplessness and just a hint of curiosity. She sighed and pulled again at her hair.

"Let's just say that the caring is mutual."

"Hermione," Sirius growled, "are you trying to tell me that my godson's gay?"

"Would it matter if he was?" she shot back. "Would you love him any less?"

He sighed and slumped back in his chair, defeated, while he mutely shook his head, no.

"Then maybe you should tell him that sometime, not," she stopped him before he could exclaim, "that I'm saying he is gay. Honestly, right now, I don't think that concepts like hertero or homosexuality matter with these two." She ignored the gurgling sound coming from Sirius' chair, and instead focused on the twisted branch outside the window. "You'll understand if you ever see them together without a huge audience. It's like... like those old stories of chivalry with knights travelling together for years, enjoying no one's company or companionship as much as each other's."

The gurgling suddenly stopped and Sirius gave a groan, burying his head in his hands again. From between his fingers, his muffled voice asked, "You mean like the legends of Gryffindor and Slytherin, don't you?"

Hermione sadly nodded her head. "Honestly, I suspect it's worse because they're tied on so many levels of magic and their history is so complicated. All I'm saying is that most lovers and spouses would be envious of their... well, passion, if nothing else. There _is_ a slight sexual element to their interactions, but only as part of their no-holds-barred openness with each other—like it's only there as yet another manifestation or aspect of their own individual personalities. But since neither of them have ever shown any inclination to express themselves sexually with another person (at least not as far as I've seen or heard), it's not really an issue to them. Gay people would probably consider them to be celibate (or possibly repressed) homosexual partners, and straight people might consider them to be overly-intense battle brothers or comrades in arms or just best friends."

Sirius sighed and sat up a bit, looking at his hands. "Do you think they might ever... that he... erm... you said they've never shown a desire to er..."

She shrugged. "Maybe. They're both teenage boys, even if life seems to have somewhat killed off their libidos." Fred and George shared a smirk over Hermione's blush for having to say all of this out loud. "And they're both curious and adventurous and they both—even Harry, surprisingly—seem to enjoy playing with power."

Hermione paused as Sirius stood up and began pacing. Partially because she didn't want to listen to a macho tirade, and partially because she thought he deserved to know everything, she continued as if there had been no pause at all.

"I suspect though, that it would be a pretty tough barrier for Harry to cross. He's spent his whole life being called a freak, and he hates anything that sets him apart from the crowd. If he thought that being gay would be yet another black mark against his character, or... or just another thing that made him 'abnormal', he'd probably fight it tooth and nail, even if fighting it made him unhappy. And no matter what, he'd probably avoid pursuing what he'd deem a frivolous relationship with anyone, because he'd feel guilty about having fun in the middle of a war that everyone expects him to end, and that he intends to end, no matter what he says to Professor Dumbledore to the contrary."

Also choosing to ignore Sirius' pacing, Remus asked Hermione, "So do you think he would benefit from..."

"Fleshing out their relationship?" She stopped at the snickers around her, and then blushed at her unintentional innuendo. "I didn't mean it that way. And the answer is... I don't know. Maybe. Harry's had very little physical contact in his life, and after what I saw of the Dursleys and what these two jokers told us, I suspect it may be even worse than I had thought. It would be good for him to be in a relationship where lots of casual, affectionate touching was not just accepted, but expected. He needs more... and don't you two say a word!... he needs more pleasure in his life."

Pretending that she couldn't hear the muffled snorts, Hermione continued. "On the other hand, turning his relationship with Tom from subtly to overtly sexual... well, no matter what, it doesn't have a future, does it? Unless Harry succeeds in creating an alternate reality where Tom doesn't return to his time, and yet we still all exist as we are, they'll have to end it. As it is, the best-case scenario that Harry's working with is that Tom will go back and never become Voldemort, which he acknowledges would completely alter the present if it did somehow happen. And even if we ended up exactly the same but without the wars, and even if Harry somehow kept his memory of this timeline, he'd still be looking at continuing his relationship with a guy nearly 70 years old. It's doomed, and as much as I want Harry to find that type of love and happiness, and as much as it looks right now like Tom's his one-and-only chance at a soul-mate," she paused as all of the males in the room shuddered, "I don't want him to go through the heartbreak that would inevitably occur when he had to let something like that go."

Sirius stopped his pacing and stood in front of Hermione looking lost and vaguely green. "What do I do?"

She gave him a sad smile and shrugged. "Let him know that you care about him, and that you're okay with his preferences, whatever they are. In the end, he has to make his own choices on things like this, no matter how much we want to protect him. You'll see the situation for yourself soon enough. I'm pretty sure these," she picked up the scroll that had fallen on the floor during their talk, "are from Tom, asking to come here."

"Wha..? How do you know?"

"Because when Harry's hurting, Tom finds him and makes him feel better," she said simply.

He shrugged and went back to his chair, picking up his own scroll. Briefly making eye contact, Sirius and Hermione nodded at each other, broke the seals and read.

"Well?" Remus had run out of patience and resented being the only person out of the loop as the twins were unabashedly reading over Hermione's shoulder.

"She was right. It's Tom, and he basically said that as we appear to be incapable of keeping Harry from suicidal thoughts, that it's our obligation to bring in someone who is capable." He shuddered. "Suicidal, Hermione?"

She shrugged, but looked worried. "Well... he has stopped coming for meals..." Hermione sighed, now biting her lip as well as tugging rather viciously on her hair.

Fred and George exchanged looks. "It'll be tough."

"The timing couldn't be worse."

"Ron'll flip."

"And we'll have to keep a close eye on Gin."

And then they both looked at Sirius and said in unison, "But we owe him."

Sirius sighed and turned to his friend, "How in Godric's name do we get the future Dark Lord into the secret-kept Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix?"

Remus gave a tired grin. "Well, if the famous Weasley twins, two retired pranksters," he gave Sirius and Hermione a wink, "and the brightest witch of her generation can't figure out a way, who can?"

And with that, they got to work.

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**AN:** So... there it is! Sorry it took so long, and I really hope you're not too disappointed. I know that I haven't used much imagery in a while, nor have I had as much sexual tension as was in my earlier chapters. Somehow, it's all sort of become its own thing. I hope you don't mind.

I've got one other background character chapter to do, this time focusing on Tom's Slytherins and their descendents (which won't involve any Tom or Harry at all in it), and then it will be all Tom & Harry dialogue for a while as we journey through the excitement and bonding at Grimmauld Place and afterwards.

On the plus side of things, I did go back and do some more tidying-up to my chapters 5 and 11-14. Please check them out and let me know if you notice or like the improvements. Chapters 15 and on (which desperately need it) will have to wait for a later time.

Back to this chapter, major thanks to The Fictionist, who lit a fire under my bum through determined supportiveness! ;-) I was really thrilled when she asked to use one of my ideas in her most recent update. I've always been pants at correspondence (all attempts at pen-pals were abysmal failures), but now I feel like I have an author-pal which is waaaaay better.

As always, please review if you can. I know that this isn't a real piece of writing—I haven't created characters or plot points... I've left all of the hard stuff to The Fictionist who does it all so much more brilliantly than I ever could. But even so, it's still a little piece of me and I care about it and I'd like to keep getting better. Your reviews help. Thanks for reading! :-)


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